


But, I Saw You Die

by LetMeTellYouAStory



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-09-12 08:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16869754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeTellYouAStory/pseuds/LetMeTellYouAStory
Summary: Five years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger is making up for lost time with her parents and taking in the sounds and sites of Muggle London. All is well, until a certain dark haired, dark clothed man that she knows to be dead starts appearing everywhere she goes...





	1. Chapter One: You're Everywhere

Chapter One

The first time she thought she saw him was, improbably, at a musical on the West End. 

She had been with her mother, enjoying a performance of Les Misérables at the Palace Theatre. They had seen the shows many times before; it was favorite of theirs. “Musical comfort food,” her mother liked to call it. 

It had taken Hermione the better part of two years following the Battle of Hogwarts to figure out and perfect the counter spell to the myriad of memory charms she had placed on her parents. Once she had it, she hastened to the home of Wendell and Monica Wilkins in Bondi Beach. A month later, after a grand tour of Australia, Walter and Miranda Granger returned to the United Kingdom with their only child, Hermione. They had forgiven her for removing their memories immediately, understanding it was for her safety. It had taken them longer – particularly her father – to forgive her putting herself in danger. “Parents always put their children first,” her father had informed her. They had shockingly little regard for their own wellbeing, as long as she was safe. 

Her penance was simple, and fair. Her parents wanted more time with her. Now that her schooling was complete, they wanted to see her minimally once a week. She began by visiting them every Friday night for dinner. Soon, she was regularly accompanying one or both of her parents to the cinema, the theatre, the opera, and museums. All the cultural activities she had grown up participating in, and had sorely missed during her time in the wizarding world. 

“One more dawn…one more day… one day more!” Hermione jumped to her feet, joining the rest of the audience in their thunderous standing ovation as the curtain came down on the stage, closing the First Act. 

“I’m for the loo,” her mother said, slipping past just before the house lights came up. “Get us a drink?” 

“Of course.” Hermione reached for her shawl, and secured it around her shoulders, before stepping into the aisle. Carefully, she picked her way through the crowd toward doors to the atrium. 

That was when she thought she saw him, sitting in the last row of the orchestra in the seat closest to the atrium doors. A programme was folded on his lap, and his eyes closed. 

“Professor?” she whispered, coming to a stop. 

“Mind you!” the man behind her chided her loudly. The seated man’s eyes flew open, and he looked at her. 

If it was not him, then the man certainly had his patented glare down to an exact science. He cursed lightly under his breath, stood, and hopped over his seat as easily as a fare-jumper taking a turnstile. He was gone within a second. Hermione felt as if all the air in the room had gone with him. 

He could not be alive… could he? _She saw him die._

“Hermione!” her mother called, reentering the theatre. “I thought you were getting drinks.” 

“Coming Mum,” she managed. She gave one last look at the now empty chair, and followed her mother out of the theatre. 

* * *

The next time she thought she saw him was two weeks later, at the Royal Opera House. Die Zauberflöte was playing.

Her mother made her usual escape to the loo before the house lights came up. Her father, a tremendous lover of Mozart, had accompanied them. 

“Let’s get drinks,” he said, placing a protective arm around his daughter and leading her to the atrium bar. “G&T? Glass of wine?” 

“G&T,” she requested. “Preferably with Bombay Sapphire if they’ve got it.” Her father nodded, and queued up. She moved toward an empty table and laid her purse down to claim it. 

That was when she thought she saw him. Again. 

He was half a dozen meters away, standing alone at another table. A glass of dark amber liquid sat at his elbow. He did not notice her – yet – and so she made a study of him. 

If it was not him… well, the man certainly looked like _him_. Tall, thin, sallow… his appearance had not changed much. His hair was shorter, perhaps and his clothes were different, of course; he was still dressed all in black, but was wearing cable knit sweater over a black collared shirt paired with black dress trousers. She knew he was a half blood, knew he had been raised in the Muggle world. His robes would have stuck out like a sore thumb among this fashionable crowd. 

“Here you are,” her father said, handed her glass with a lime on the rim. She thanked him and pushed the citron into her drink, mashing it with her straw. When she looked back up, the man was gone, the glass empty. 

* * *

She did not see the man at her next outing; to be fair, she and her mother had gone to see Mamma Mia at the Prince Edward Theatre. While she had enjoyed it tremendously – even got up to dance with her mother in the aisle during Waterloo – she did not think the lives and loves of Donna Sheridan was quite his cuppa.

* * *

Was that him, at the Van Gogh exhibit in the National Gallery? Surely, it could not be he sitting three rows ahead of her at the ballet. Or seven rows behind and two seats to the left at Chekhov’s The Seagull.

As she took her seat in the Piccadilly Theatre to see Ragtime – there for just a limited run – she started to believe that she was, in fact, seeing things. It was impossible that he was alive. It was even more impossible that he seemed to be following her from one theatrical performance to another. 

Yet… this time, in the atrium of the Piccadilly, he did not run, swear or cower when he saw her. This time, when the dark haired, dark clothed stranger caught her eye during intermission, he merely lifted his glass and inclined his head. 

_Cheers_. 

* * *

Hermione got her answer during intermission at the Phantom of the Opera at Her Majesty’s Theatre.

As usual, Miranda Granger had made for the loo before the lights came up, leaving Hermione to collect their drinks – G&T for her, white wine for her mother. She was searching in her purse for Muggle currency when she felt a presence behind her. 

“Whiskey, neat,” the man told the barman. He held out a fifty-pound note. “I’ll pay for the lady as well.” 

Hermione froze. She would know that voice anywhere. Wide eyed, she turned to look at its owner. It was definitely him. 

“Cheers, Miss Granger.” He said, lifting his drink. He thanked the barman, and took his change, leaving a generous tip beside untouched cocktail napkin. 

“Professor?” she asked. 

He sighed. “Not anymore.” He put his arm - well, not quite around her but almost - and somehow managed to slide both her and her drinks toward the end of the bar. “We seem to be past the point of no return.” 

Did he just make a joke? Those were lyrics to a song – her favorite – from the show. That would mean he had seen it before. The song was in the second act. 

_How are you alive?_ Her mind screamed. “Thank you for the drinks,” she said, instead. 

He shrugged, in lieu of the more common “you’re welcome.” 

“Are you here alone?” she asked. He nodded. “I’m with my mother.” 

He nodded again. “I gathered.” He took a generous swig from his glass, and took the opportunity to give her the once over. She did the same. 

“I like your sweater,” she said, stupidly. He was wearing the same clothes she saw him in at opera. 

“I try to blend,” he replied, shrugging again. “I’m not as adept at it as I fancy myself to be.” He indicated her sage linen dress, which was, in truth, a bit much for a matinee. She blushed. 

“My mum likes to get dressed up when we go out,” she said. “She is, as she says, a middle aged dentist. Our outings are her ‘fancy occasions’.” She caught site of her mother over his shoulder. “She’s looking for me.” 

He nodded again, and finished his drink. “Excuse me,” he said, placing his glass back on the bar. “Enjoy.” He started to move away. She reached out her hand. 

“Wait,” she said, brushing her fingertips against his sleeve. He paused, seeming to brace himself for what she would say next. “Next week we have tickets to see La Bohème at the opera.” 

He nodded, and melted into the crowd. 

* * *

That night, Hermione surprised her parents and stayed over in her childhood bedroom.

_How was he alive?_ She saw him die. 

Literally. She saw the light drain from his eyes as he stared into Harry’s eyes. She saw his chest fall, saw him struggle to take that final breath. 

Clearly, she had been wrong. 

* * *

He did not show at La Bohème. Or if he did, he chose not to make his presence known to her. Maybe he didn’t like Puccini?

More likely, he was avoiding her. 

She had not told anyone he was alive. Who would have believed her? 

* * *

Hermione skipped the now weekly trip with her parents the following week. Her dad had gotten some ‘really excellent’ seats from a client for the Arsenal match. Hermione could barely stomach having to sit through a Quidditch match, and one of her best friends – Ginny – had gone pro. She was not going to sit through Muggle football.

It felt wrong, though, not doing something Muggle. Sunday outings had become as ingrained in her as Friday night dinners. At noon, she gave in and decided to treat herself to a movie. 

She half expected him to be waiting outside the theatre. He was not. She picked a romantic Christmas comedy – Love Actually. 

Half way through the movie, she felt someone fill the seat beside her. She did not have to look up to know it was he. 

“Popcorn?” she asked, pushing her mostly untouched bucket toward him. She kept her eyes on the screen. 

“Thank you,” he managed, and took a small handful. They finished the film in silence. At the end, they waited for everyone else to leave the theatre and the lights to come on before they regarded one another. 

“Did you have to pick such a sappy romantic film?” he asked. Surprisingly, his voice lacked the disgust she had expected. He merely seemed curious. She smiled. “I didn’t know to expect company.” 

He opened his mouth, as if to reply, and then, thinking better, shut it. She stood. “I’m going to the pub around the corner. Care to join me?” 

He did not answer, but stood as well, and followed her out of the theatre. They walked in silence until Hermione found a small, nondescript pub that seemed clean and ducked inside. He followed her. 

A hostess handed them menus and led them toward a booth at the back. They removed their overcoats and sat down. 

“You’re very casual today,” he said, indicating her jeans and jumper. He was wearing his usual Muggle outing attire. 

“It’s just me,” she replied. “I’m not a middle aged dentist living for the weekend.” She picked up her menu. He did the same. 

A server approached their table. “What do you like?” He asked. 

She bit her lip. “How’s your Shephard’s Pie?” 

The server scratched the edge of his nose with his pen. “It’s serviceable.” 

“A ringing endorsement,” he replied. “And the bangers and mash?” 

“The same.” 

He looked at Hermione, who had closed the menu. “What will it be?” 

“Shephard’s Pie,” she said confidently, not put off by the server. He nodded, and took her menu, pairing it with his before handing it to the server. 

“Shephard’s Pie for the lady. I’ll be equally brave and have the bangers and mash.” He looked back at her. “Two pints of Guinness?” She nodded. “And two pints.” 

The server scribbled the order onto his pad, and scurried away. Without the cover of their menus, they started at one another. 

_How are you alive?_ She wanted to ask. Instead, she said, “you weren’t at La Bohème. Not a Puccini fan?” 

He frowned. “No,” he said, stiffly. “I just…” he trailed off, and she could see his mind working, measuring his response. “It was her favorite opera. I’m not…” 

“Ready to see it,” Hermione finished for him. She wondered who she was. Lily maybe? Did he still hold a torch for her? 

_Always._

The server chose that moment to return. He placed their pints on the table. “Food will be ready soon,” he said, raising an eyebrow. Hermione nodded dismissively, and he backed away once more. 

“So,” she tried again, keeping her voice light. “What have you been up to since…?” 

He shook his head. “No. What have you been up to?” He raised his pint to his lips. “Aside from taking in all the Muggle pleasures of London with your parents.” 

It was her turn to shrug. “I finished school.” 

“So I heard.” 

_From whom?_ She wanted to cry. Who knew he was alive? Why was he sitting here, making pleasantries with her? She forced herself to continue. “I work for the Ministry now, in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.” 

“Do you enjoy your work?” 

Did she enjoy her work? “It’s a means to an end,” she heard herself say. 

“Meaning?” 

“Meaning I’m still not entirely sure that wizards deserve to have jurisprudence over other magical beings.” She took a hearty sip of her beer. “But, the most effective way to bring about a change to the system is from within.” 

He raised his left eyebrow. “Still championing house elves rights?” 

She smiled. “Got it in one.” 

“Are you… do still reside with your parents in Hampstead?” 

_How did he know her parents lived in Hampstead?_ “No,” she answered, shaking her head. “I’ve a flat in Knightsbridge. It’s close though – just a half hour by car.” 

“Do you drive?” They both seemed surprised by the question. 

“I – no. I mean, I have a driver’s license, but I do not use it. I have my Apparition license.” 

“Of course.” 

Their server returned to place their food on the table. “Anything else?” He asked them. They waived him off. 

The food looked passable. Edible, even. They ate in silence. 

Was there anything she was allowed to ask him? Everything felt off-limits, but she wanted to know – everything. Instead, she settled for a time-honored classic. “Have you read any good books lately?” 

* * *

They parted company two hours and two additional Guinness’s each later. They had talked about everything – art, literature, history, Muggle politics – and nothing – no mention of the wizarding world, or anyone they knew from it.

She had tried, of course. How could she not? Every time, he rebuffed her with a gentle, but firm, “No.” 

* * *

The following week the Grangers returned to the Royal Opera House for a special holiday performance of Romeo and Juliet. She was not surprised when she spotted him in the crowd; she was amazed, however, when he opted to join her, accompanied this evening by both of her parents, for his intermission drink.

“Good evening, Miss Granger,” he greeted her, as he joined their table in the atrium. He had, per usual, a glass of whiskey. 

“Professor,” she replied, doing her best to hide her shock. She was sure it was not working. She could feel her mouth hanging stupidly open. 

“You’re enjoying the show, I trust?” he replied. 

“It’s beautiful,” she said. He gaze held hers for moment, two, three. Then he broke it, turning to address her parents. 

“Good evening,” he greeted them. “You must be Dr. and Dr. Granger?” he extended a hand to her father, who grasped it automatically. 

“Yes. And you are?” 

“Severus… Prince.” 

Hermione saw her mother’s lip curl in interest. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Prince. And you know our daughter from…?” 

He hesitated, catching her eye again. “There,” he said. A single word, so full of meaning. She knew he knew her parents would understand. They would not press. 

They did not. 

“Do you come to the opera often?” her mother inquired. 

“Not as often as I wish,” he said regretfully. “Though I’ve managed to take in the cultural sights of our fair city more and more in the past few months. A bit more opera, some musicals, museums.” Her parents nodded approvingly. 

“What is it you do, Mr. Prince?” Walter Granger asked. Hermione looked at him, expectantly. 

“I’ve recently changed my line of work,” he said, without missing a beat. “Trying my hand at writing.” 

_Writing?_ He had, of course, not mentioned anything about that when last they met. 

The red warning light flashed. The crowd began to thin as people started to return to their seats. Hermione watched as he deftly finished his drink. “It was lovely meeting you, Drs. Granger. Do enjoy the rest of the show.” He replaced his glass on the table and caught her eye. “Until next time, Miss Granger.” 

* * *

Her parents were polite enough not to ask any questions about _him_ after the opera. Her mind afforded her no such luxury.

* * *

Their paths next crossed four days later, at a chippy on the corner of Whitehall and Bridge she occasionally frequented. She had been having a resplendently terrible day and was desperate to soak her miseries in an oily fish fry. He had been standing at the head of the queue when she entered the tiny shop. They caught one another’s eye, and he doubled his order. She nodded, and headed back outside to find them a spot to sit.

He joined her a few minutes later. “Miss Granger,” he greeted her, setting a brown bag and bottle of club soda in front of her. 

“Good afternoon Professor,” she replied. She waited until he sat down beside her and opened his own bag before digging into hers. “Lucky you were at the front of the queue.” 

“Indeed.” They ate in silence for a minute, two. 

“Aren’t you afraid someone from the Ministry will see you here?” she asked. “There’s an entrance not two streets down.” 

He chewed thoughtfully on a chip. After a moment, he said, “No.” Seeing her surprise, he continued. “Miss Granger, have you come to this chippy before?” 

“Of course.” 

“And in all the years you’ve worked at the Ministry, have you ever see any of your colleagues here?” 

“Never.” 

He smiled triumphantly. It softened his entire visage. She did not want to stare; she forced her eyes toward the ground, studying her loafers. 

“Something wrong?” he asked her. 

“No,” she replied. “Just a tough day. I wonder…” she trailed off. She had been about to say, _I wonder how you always find me?_

“You wonder?” 

_Sod it_ , she thought. In for a penny, in for a pound. If she put him off with her questioning, what would she lose, really? “How do you always find me?” 

He slowed his chewing. “How do you mean?” 

She raised her brow. “At the opera, at musicals, at the ballet. The cinema. Here,” she said, gesturing to the centimeters of ground between them. “How do you always know where I am?” 

He seemed amused by her question. “Do you think I’m following you?” 

“No, I do not,” she replied in earnest. “You seemed quite put off to run into me at Les Mis, and scurried off to hide when we passed one another at the Van Gogh exhibit.” She smiled slyly. “Though you’ve seem to have warmed considerably to my presence, I am still quite sure that we are meeting on happy accident. I’m simply curious as to what is engineering said accidents.” 

He nodded. “Fair enough.” He reached into an interior pocket of his coat and withdrew a handheld travel guide. “This seems to keep pointing me in your direction,” he said, placing it into her outstretched palm. 

_“The Wizards Guide to Muggle London,”_ she read. “Who gave you this?” He met her eye, and gave her a meaningful look. She knew straight away. “Professor Dumbledore.” 

“It was my final Christmas present from him,” he said. “With a card that read something along the lines of, ‘if you survive this war, let yourself live. Take in the sites.’” He smiled deprecatingly. “Well, it took a few years, but I’m finally letting myself do just that.” 

“But how does it keep finding me?” 

“Apparently, the book believes you to be an arbiter of taste when it comes to Muggle London.” He wiped his hands on his napkin. “At present, I’d have to agree. That was the best fry and chips I have had in a long time.” He looked at her. “I wonder, Miss Granger, as the book has me following you around this fair city, would you join me for dinner on Friday?” She tried to hide her surprise as he continued. “I’m very much in the mood for Indian, and I fear that if I leave things to fate, you may very well choose Scandinavian.” 

She laughed. “That’s very unlikely, Professor,” she said. “I’m really not partial to herring.” She pushed an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I would like to join you for dinner, but not on Friday. I have a standing date with my parents. Sunday?” 

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Isn’t Sunday your weekly outing?” 

She nodded. “Yes, but perhaps you might join me for that as well. Mum and Dad are taking a mini-break in Paris from Saturday, leaving me all to my lonesome.” In truth, her parents had offered to take her with them, and she had declined. 

“What’s on the docket this week?” 

“Bit of shopping at one or two of the markets– it’s nearly Christmas – maybe a pop in at the National Gallery to see the Van Eyck and Pre-Raphaelites exhibit. I heard it’s quite good.” 

He seemed to be weighing her words. “Indian after?” 

She laughed again. “I promise, Indian after. Mum likes a very authentic place not far from the Tobacco Dock – we can dine there.” She finished the last of her fried cod and crumpled up her brown bag. “Thank you for lunch, Professor. I really needed that.” 

He started to shrug, but then seemed to think better of it. “You’re welcome, Miss Granger.” He glanced at his watch. “You must be getting back.” 

“Yes,” she said, getting to her feet. She collected their trash and threw it into a nearby receptacle. “See you Sunday, Professor.” She strode off. It felt good for her to once – just this once – leave the conversation feeling as if she had the upper hand.  


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

On Sunday morning, she woke feeling a way she had not felt in some time. _Excited._ She was going to see _him_ today. She had been looking forward to it since she walked away from him on Thursday afternoon. Though they had not settled on a time or place, she knew when the hour was right he would find her. 

It was flattering – exhilarating - knowing that the book, or whatever spell that had been placed upon it, deemed her movements interesting enough to keep _him_ entertained. She hoped, now that she was aware, that she would not disappoint. 

_He had never gotten to enjoy much of the Muggle world,_ she mused, _or even much of the Wizarding world._ From the little she knew of Professor Snape – gleaned from co-workers and acquaintances – he had lived a very solitary existence. 

Which reminded her… _she had seen him die._ How was it she was meeting him for some light shopping, an art exhibition and Indian food? 

Hermione glanced at herself in the mirror. She was dressed casually – jeans, an oversized navy and white jumper, leather knee-high boots. She added a brown leather coat– spelled to keep her warmer than it appeared – and after a moment’s hesitation, her Gryffindor house scarf. Perfect. She tucked her wand into a hidden pocket in the coat’s lining and Disappareted for Camden Market. 

He arrived about half an hour after she, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, while she was tasting cheeses at a cheese monger’s stall. 

“Try this one,” she said by way of greeting. Before he could object, she popped a small piece of triple crème brie into his mouth. “It’s good, no?” 

He stared down his nose at her. Was he going to reprimand her for tossing the cheese into his mouth, right here, in front of people? No, he looked more amused than anything else. “Yes, it’s quite good, Miss Granger,” he replied. He glanced over her shoulder at the slate signs propped against the various wheels of cheese. “Have you tried the Stilton?” 

“No, not yet,” she turned back to the cheese monger and asked for samples of the Stilton. The cheese monger cut them each a slice. She was going to hand it to him, until she saw that he opened his mouth just so. She grinned, and slipped the cheese between his lips. 

“That one is good, too,” he said. He casually rested a hand on her shoulder as he regarded the display. “What else did you like?” 

She could not help but feel the slightest bit of delight at his touch. Wait… did she _fancy_ him? Or had it been that long since a man, other than her father, had touched her in such a familiar, _intimate_ way? 

She shook her head the tiniest bit to clear it, and pointed to a rich white cheddar flecked with cranberries. “That one was really different.” 

He cocked his brow. “Does different mean good?” 

She elbowed him good-naturedly. “Yes, of course!” She gestured to one of the Goudas. “That one there, the Old Amsterdam, is also one of my favorites.” 

He pulled a large note from his pocket. “We’ll take three hundred grams of each,” he told the cheese monger, indicating the cheeses she recommended, plus the Stilton and the Brie. He also asked for a couple of baguettes. 

“Don’t you want to try the cheeses first?” she asked him. 

He shook his head, patting the inside pocket of his coat, where she knew he kept his travel guide. “It’s not necessary. You are my arbiter of good taste, remember?” 

_Touché._

They spent the next two hours weaving their way through the market stalls, stopping every now and again to see, taste or touch the various wares. By the time they finished, they were both laden with her bags. She had completed most of her Christmas shopping list. 

_He_ , on the other hand, had bought only two more items besides the cheese. A book – she had not managed to see the cover before the bookseller wrapped it for him – and a silver bangle bracelet with a delicate fleur-de-lis pattern etched upon it. He did not say whom the gifts were for, and she was polite enough not to ask. 

“Are you still up for the exhibit at the National Gallery?” he asked, as they set her wares down one of the tables overlooking the canal. Wordlessly – and wandlessly –, he shrunk all of the packages until they fit easily in her pocket. 

“Yes.” Her stomach rumbled, and she blushed. “Do you mind if we grabbed something to eat first?” 

He held up the cheese bag. “I’ve been waiting for you to say the word.” They sat down. He pulled out a utility knife and a clean handkerchief from his pocket and busied himself slicing up the baguettes. She unwrapped the cheeses. 

He bravely opted to try the cheddar with cranberries first. “What do you think?” she asked, watching him chew thoughtfully. 

“Well… it’s certainly different.” He swallowed, and for a moment, she worried that he had not liked it. Then he speared another piece of it with his knife and popped it into his mouth. “Different can mean good,” he conceded. 

By the time they had finished eating, the sky had turned overcast. “Do you want to walk or Apparate?” He asked her. 

“I actually love it when the weather’s like this,” she admitted. 

“Then let’s walk. We can always duck into an alley and use a drying spell if we must.” 

They fell into step easily as they companionably made their way across the city. They talked about the shows, operas, ballets and movies they had seen, books they had read. He had been soaking up Muggle culture like a man on a mission. She said as much. 

“I _am_ a man on a mission,” he replied. “For the first time in my miserable existence, I am _quite_ determined to enjoy myself.” 

* * *

A short while later, as they wandered through the exhibition, he surprised her by asking after her friends. “Do you still see Potter and Weasley?” 

“Of course,” she replied. “We all work at the Ministry. They’re both Aurors now.” 

“Indeed,” he said, raising his brow. “Though that wasn’t what I meant. Do you still spend time together socially?” 

“Yes,” she said, hesitating ever so slightly. “Admittedly, less so than before. They have their lives, and I have mine.” 

“Did you fall out with them?” 

“No,” she answered – perhaps a hair too quickly. “After what we went through… well, I think it’s fair to say that our friendship is permanently bonded.” She shrugged. “But, people grow up. They pursuit careers, romances, outside interests.” She paused in front of Millais’ _Ophelia_. On loan from the Tate, it was one of her favorite paintings. “They’d never venture into Muggle London like this.” 

“No?” 

She shook her head. “Neither of them have ever expressed any interest in the arts. Ron’s never really had the opportunity to be exposed to it, and Harry…well, the little he was exposed to has been tainted by some very unpleasant memories.” She glanced up at him. “What about you? 

“Me?” He smirked. “I’ve certainly have not kept up with Potter and Weasley.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Ha-ha.” 

He was still smirking, clearly very pleased with himself. “Obviously I enjoy the arts, or my guidebook wouldn’t have me following you around the city.” 

“I didn’t mean that. I meant, is it something you were much exposed to as a child? We – my parents and I – always spent a great deal of time visiting museums, taking in shows, attending the opera. It was something I missed dearly while at Hogwarts.” She gestured to the Ophelia. “None of the art hanging in the castle is quite like _her.”_

“I completely disagree,” he contended. “There’s a painting that’s very much her likeness outside of Aurora’s – that’s Professor Sinistra to you – office.” He examined the painting. “Although I prefer this one, she seems less mouthy.” Seeing her serious expression, he shook his head. “I grew up in a poorer part of the Midlands. My cultural experiences consisted of observing the local boys playing football, and watching my father and his drunken compatriots bet on the horses.” 

She was dying to know more. She started to formulate a follow-up, but he very quickly and effectively shut her down by taking her arm in his. “Come,” he said. “There’s a Rosetti in the collection I’d very much like to see in person.” 

* * *

Over dinner, she tried again to get him to open up. “What are you working on?” 

He tore off a small piece of naan, and dipped it into his rasam soup. “What do you mean?” 

“You told my father that you had switched careers, and were trying writing. What are you writing?” 

He nodded. “So I did.” He popped the fluffy bread into his mouth and chewed. “This is excellent, by the way, are you sure you won’t try some?” 

“I have my mulligatawny,” she gestured to her bowl. “Don’t change the subject.” 

“Suit yourself,” he said, taking another hearty spoonful. He closed his eyes, savoring. When he opened them again, she was still watching him. “Oh, all right,” he grumbled. “I’m working on a series of potions textbooks. The ones currently on the market leave a lot to be desired.” 

Her mind’s eye flashed to her sixth year, when Harry and the Half-Blood Prince’s book – Professor Snape’s book – kept besting her in Potions class. “True,” she agreed. 

“You sound disappointed,” he remarked. 

“Not at all,” she replied. “There is definitely great need for more precise texts. I’m sure we’ll see a great reduction in cauldrons melting, at the very least.” 

“Not if your pal Longbottom keeps trying his hand at brewing.” 

“I assure you, he’s given it up entirely.” She raised her brow. “Though he might not have been _such_ a disaster if you hadn’t scared him so.” 

He raised his hands in front of his chest. “Me?” 

She snorted. “Come off it. I know Remus told you his boggart took your form in our third year.” They both chuckled. “I’m glad you can laugh about it,” she said. 

“It’s taken _literally_ years, but I have been trying not to take myself – and life – so seriously,” he said, smiling wryly. “Being a triple agent _and_ a school teacher didn’t leave much room for healthy stress relief.” 

“Hence taking in the sights and sounds of London and all its cultural delights?” 

“Precisely.” She watched him set aside his soup bowl and dig into his main. 

“This is so good,” he said with relish. “I haven’t had authentic Indian food in eons.” 

“I’m glad it lived up to its hype.” 

“And then some. Thank your mother for the recommendation.” 

After dinner, they went for a stroll along the docks, so she could show him the ships. Before she knew it, it was past nine, and time for them to part. Surprisingly – or maybe not so unsurprisingly – she did not want to. 

“I had a really nice time today,” she said, pausing to look out at the water. 

“So did I.” He stopped, too, and leaned against the railing. 

“It was kind of you to endure shopping with me.” She laughed deprecatingly. “Most people would not have borne it.” 

He turned to face her. “Most people are fools, then,” he answered. He hesitated, studying her, searching for… something. Lifting his hand, he toyed with a stray lock of her hair. His thumb grazed her cheek. 

“Professor?” she asked, quizzically. 

“You had a bit of rice in your hair,” he replied. He held it out, showing it to her, before tossing it to the ground. 

_Oh._ Well, then. 

“I… thank you, Professor.” 

He was still staring at her. “Miss Granger?” he asked. 

“Yes?” 

He paused. “Aida is playing at the opera for a limited run. I was planning to go see it next Saturday evening. Would you care to join me?” 

_Yes!_ Her mind screamed. Scrounging every bit of decorum she possessed, she answered, “Yes, Professor, I’d be honored.” 

* * *

The next week passed in a blur. With the holidays fast approaching, everyone at the Ministry seemed to determine to wrap up their projects before the break began. Hermione herself was elbows deep in archaic laws and red tape that threatened to hold up the house-elf protection laws she had drafted. Saturday could not come fast enough. She desperately needed to be doing something – anything – other than translating documents written in Ancient Runes. 

It was a relief when Friday evening arrived. As usual, she Apparated into her parents backyard garden. 

“Hi Poppet,” Her father greeted her as she suddenly appeared. He was fiddling with the grill. 

“Hey Dad,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “Isn’t it a bit too cold to be grilling?” 

“Nonsense,” he disagreed. “We grilled all year round when we lived in Australia.” 

“The weather was a little milder in Australia,” she pointed out. 

“Go on inside. Mum’s waiting for you. She’s brought you back a little post mini-break pre-Christmas gift from Paris.” 

Hermione slid open the glass door leading from the garden to the kitchen. “Mum?” she called, pausing to take off her jacket and hat. She folded them over a kitchen chair. 

“Hermione, is that you?” 

“Who else calls you Mum?” Hermione replied teasingly. She headed to the sitting room to find her mother standing over the drinks cart, frowning at a thick book. “What are you doing?” 

Her mother sighed, and tossed the book onto a nearby ottoman. “I was trying to make some fancy cocktail, but the recipe calls for too many ingredients we don’t have.” She handed Hermione a cocktail shaker. “Rinse this out, and I’ll use the other one to make dirty martinis.” 

Hermione did as she was bade, and upon her return to the sitting room awarded her drink. She made herself comfortable on the sofa. 

“Here,” her mother tossed her a small green velvet box. “A little something from Paris.” 

Hermione set her drink down and opened the box. Inside was a silver hair comb with a flower motif of pearls and sapphires. She ran her finger along the delicate design. “Mom, wow. Thank you. It’s gorgeous.” 

“Use it in good health,” her mother said, as she always did when she gave a gift. Her mother moved to sit beside her, and Hermione leaned to kiss her cheek. “How is work?” Her mother asked. 

“Busy,” Hermione replied. It was difficult for her to talk about her job with her parents. They knew so little of the wizarding world, and sometimes, she had difficulty finding a Muggle equivalent to compare her troubles to. In general, she allowed them to think she was a lawyer. “I drafted new legislation last month,” she explained. “It’s been through auditing, and now I have to dig through centuries worth of archaic law to defend my stance.” She sighed. “It’s exhausting.” 

“Why don’t you bring your computer into work?” Her mother suggested. “I bet if you scanned the files, it would be easier to get through them.” 

“I can’t, Mum. You know magic makes electronics go completely haywire.” 

“Right, I knew that.” Her mother sipped her drink. “Have you got any big plans for the weekend?” 

Hermione stirred her martini. “Sort of. I’m going to the opera tomorrow evening with a friend.” 

“Oh?” Her mother trilled approvingly. “A _friend_ -friend or a _date_ -friend?” 

_Good question_. She was not sure how, exactly, to classify her relationship with Professor Snape. Were they even friends? She had barely allowed herself to think about him over the past week, but when she had, her thoughts had been decidedly less _friend_ -friendly, and more along the lines of imagining what might have happened if she _had not_ had rice in her hair. His thumb had felt _very nice_ against her cheek. She blushed. 

“Ah!” her mother exclaimed, smiling smugly. “A _date_ -friend, then. Who is he?” 

Hermione bit her lip. “I don’t think it’s a date,” she said lamely. “It’s a friend who is new to London, and we’ve been spending some time together, taking in the sights.” What would her parents think of her dating her significantly older former Potions professor? 

Her mother made a face. “Fine. Who is your non- _date_ date with?” 

_Only one-way to find out,_ she thought. Plucking up her Gryffindor courage, she said, “Do you remember my … friend … we met at Romeo and Juliet?” 

Her mother narrowed her eyes in thought. “The gentleman in black? Mr. Prince, wasn’t it?” 

Hermione nodded. “That’s the one.” She paused, bracing herself for a reaction. 

Her mother leaned back against the sofa cushions and took another sip of her drink. “He was polite,” she remarked. “Handsome, too.” Hermione gave her mom a look, and her mom held up her hands. “Okay, okay, not in the traditional sense, but in an Alan Rickman-y way.” Hermione raised her brow, and her mom continued. “You know, distinguished. He has a marvelous voice, too. Where did you say you know him from?” 

She had not. “There.” 

“So he’s a witch, too?” 

“A wizard, yes.” 

“Do you work with him?” Hermione shook her head. Sensing the problem, Miranda Granger continued airily. “It doesn’t bother me that he’s a bit older, Hermione. Does it bother you?” 

_Did it?_ Not, not really. Truthfully, they had more in common than Hermione had with most of her friends. 

“Well, then that’s alright. You’ve always been an old soul.” 

* * *

Hermione awoke the next morning to a knock on her bedroom window by a small tawny barn owl. 

“Well, hello,” she said, opening the window to let the bird in. It hopped onto the little stand she kept by the sill for such occasions. “Who are you from?” she asked. The bird extended its foot to her, where a note was tied with a plain black ribbon. She removed it and handed the bird a couple of treats, which it gobbled down greedily. 

She unfurled the note, and saw at once that it was from Professor Snape; after years of writing miles of parchment for him – always returned with tons of comments and critiques – she would know his spiky writing anywhere. 

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_It occurs to me that I ought to do the gentlemanly thing, and escort you to the theatre from your home. Regrettably, I do not know where you live (in particular – I do recall you mentioning that your flat is in Knightsbridge in general). Assuming my owl has managed to find you, and you are amenable to my plan, what is your address? I await your return._

_~ S. Snape ~_

_PS – Please, do not give the owl more than two treats. Seraphina is a very spoiled little bird and will beg as many off you as you are willing to part with. I assure you, despite her greedy demeanor, she is very well fed._

As if the bird knew the contents of the letter, she ducked her head. Hermione tossed her another treat. 

“Shhh,” she said conspiratorially to the owl. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. If you’ll give me just a moment, I’ll write a return.” She grabbed a quill off her dressing table. 

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_My address 33 Lancelot Place, Apt 2C. Come at six?_

_Hermione_

She gave the owl one last treat and a pat on the head before tying her reply to Seraphina’s leg. “Off you go,” she said, as the owl departed. She watched as it took to the sky. “I wonder where you are headed.” 

Hermione ate breakfast and did a bit of work – the archaic laws were not going to research themselves, unfortunately. At two, she took a long, leisurely bath and then began to tackle the pressing issue of what to wear. 

Her parents had impressed upon her from a young age that one dressed for the opera. “Especially if it’s a date.” Hermione still was not sure it was, but she was determined to look the part. 

After taking longer than she would ever comfortably admit to, she picked out a royal blue velvet dress. It was long, and very modest – in the front. The back, on the other hand, plunged almost to her waist, and boasted a not insignificant slit. She put it on and examined her reflection. 

It looked good. _She_ looked good. 

Now to tackle her greatest challenge – her hair. 

She would wear it up, she decided. Doing so would show her dress to its greatest effect, and really, was not the point of such a dress to show off, just a little? She applied a liberal amount of Sleekeazy’s hair potion and combed it through, twisting her hair up into an elegant chignon. She topped it off with the comb her mother gave her the night before. A pair of pearl earrings and silver heels – spelled to be comfortable despite their precarious height – completed her look. She was ready. 

There was a knock at her door. She glanced at the clock – five forty-five. He was early. She slipped her shoes on and went to answer the door. 

“Good evening,” she said, opening the door. It was not him. 

_“Blimey!”_ Ron and Harry stood in her doorway. Hermione glanced over their shoulders to make sure her expected visitor was not behind them. He was not. Good. She ushered them inside. 

“Where are you headed?” Harry asked, as Ron let out a low wolf whistle. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked them. 

“We were in the neighborhood and figured we’d treat you to a drink,” Harry explained. 

“Have you got a date?” Ron asked. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well spotted, Ronald,” she snapped. 

“With whom?” Ron moved behind her to get a better view. “You must really fancy him.” She and Ron had tried dating after the war. About two years in, it became increasingly obvious that they simply were not suited to one another. She was extremely proud of both of them that they had been able to call things off amicably and maintain their friendship. That said, she was in no mood to be ogled by him right now, and more importantly, she needed them both gone before her intended evening companion showed up. He would not take kindly to running into them. She was sure they had no idea that he was still among the living. 

“Thank you for your generosity, _boys,_ ” she said as graciously as she could muster. “As you can see, I already have plans. I need you to kindly _leave._ ” She took each of them by the arm and propelled them back toward the door. 

“Aw, Hermione let us stay and get a look at him,” Ron pleaded. “We have to make sure he’s good enough for our girl.” 

“Some other time,” she answered airily. She shot Harry look. He held up his hands. 

“C’mon Ron. We had better go. Hermione probably still has some, er, primping to do.” He took Ron by the arm and opened the door. “Sorry Hermione, he’s already got a few drinks in him.” 

“Yes, I can see that.” She glanced at the clock. It was five to six. “Harry, _please._ ” 

“We’re going.” Harry tugged Ron. “C’mon mate, I’ll Apparate us.” He led Ron through her front door and into the hall. Checking that the coast was clear, he looked back at Hermione. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” They disappeared. Thank Merlin. Two minutes to spare. She shut the door and leaned against it, catching her breath. 

Another knock at the door. It had better be _him,_ she thought. She could not take another narrow escape. 

It was. 

He looked – as her mother would say – _dashing_. Instead of his usual black on black Muggle ensemble, he wore a well-cut charcoal suit with a white dress shirt. A black wool coat was folded over his arm. 

“Good evening Miss Granger,” he greeted her. “You look…” he trailed off, staring at her. 

_Damn._ Had her hair come loose? She raised a hand to her chignon. It felt like all was in order. 

“You look very nice,” she said. 

He swallowed. “You’re radiant,” he responded. He extended his arm. “Are you ready?” 

* * *

The evening was everything she had been hoping for… right up until the moment she ruined everything. 

He Apparated them to the opera. “I don’t care what sort of cushioning charm you put on those shoes, you cannot convince me they are comfortable enough to walk four kilometers in,” he had said. Secretly, she was delighted when he gathered her into his arms, close enough to smell his aftershave. Once inside the opera house, they checked their coats, and she took great pleasure in the feeling of his hand against the small of her back as he guided her through the crowded auditorium to their seats. 

He had gotten them very good seats; third row center orchestra. For the first two acts, they both sat very rigid and still. Drinks during intermission served to relax them both. At some point during the third act, he casually placed his arm along the back of her chair; she responded by leaning against it, resting her head against the crook of his shoulder. He brushed his fingertips along her bare arm. 

Her arm erupted in goosebumps. 

“Are you cold?” he asked her. She shook her head ever so slightly, and burrowed closer to him. 

As the opera ended, he asked her if she would join him for a late supper. She happily agreed. The retrieved their coats and headed toward a small bistro near the theatre. “They specialize in Milanese cuisine,” he told her. He winked. “In honor of Verdi.” 

“I thought he was born in Busseto,” she mused. 

“Near there,” he replied. “Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” he teased. “Aida, at least according to Verdi, premiered in Milan.” 

She looked at him quizzically, and he explained. “It actually premiered in Cairo, but Verdi was very displeased with the performance – too many aristocrats, no peasants. He was from the school of thought that believed opera was for the people.” 

The bistro was small, dark, and very intimate. He asked the hostess for the booth in the back, and led Hermione through the restaurant in a matter that suggested he had been there before. 

As they slid into the booth, he asked her if she was familiar with Milanese cuisine. She admitted she was not. “Would you mind if I ordered a selection of dishes then? We can share.” She nodded encouragingly, and to her great surprise, he proceeded to give their waiter their order. _In fluent Italian._

She waited until the waiter left and stared at him. “How do you know Italian?” 

He shrugged modestly. “I lived in Tuscany for the past two years, before I returned to England. It was a… what is the term… adapt or perish... situation.” 

_He had lived in Italy?_ It was all so mind-boggling. 

“Hey,” he said, tapping his pinky against the side of her hand. “Why do you look so distraught?” 

“I don’t know anything about you,” she replied. 

He frowned. “What do you mean? You know what kind of books I read, what I do, the music I prefer…” 

“I don’t know anything important.” 

“I have to disagree. I think those are of great importance.” The waiter returned with a bottle of red wine. He opened the cork and poured a small measure into his glass. Professor Snape swirled it around and sniffed it before taking a sip. “Excellent,” he declared. “Please leave the bottle.” The waiter did so, and departed again. He looked at her. “Miss Granger, we’re just getting to know one another. It takes time to build a foundation.” 

She sighed. “We’ve known one another for more than a decade.” 

He chuckled. “Technically, yes. Really, we were acquaintances. Merely a professor and student - the insufferable know-it-all and the greasy git in the dungeons.” 

“I never called you that.” However, Ron and Harry certainly had on several occasions. 

“I know,” he nodded. “We are just getting to know one another as equals. I am not an easy person to get on with, and even now, I am in great need of your patience. After so many years operating in the shadows, I have a tremendously difficult time opening up to other people.” 

They both knew it to be true. He poured her a glass of wine and topped off his own. “To friendship?” 

She clinked her glass against his. “To friendship.” 

The meal was incredible. The waiter brought dish after dish; creamy golden risotto, pappardelle with mushrooms, a cabbage and pork stew, ossobuco and polenta, and scaloppini and prosciutto in a zesty lemon and parsley sauce. She declared the last to be her favorite. He commented that he was taking note for next time. 

“Dessert?” he asked her, as their plates were cleared. 

She patted her stomach. “I’m not sure I have any more room. This dress was already pretty form fitting.” 

He smirked. “I know. That’s what I like about it.” He signaled the waiter. “Let’s get a little something sweet to go. We can take a brief walk, and maybe your appetite will return. I hear cold winter air aids in digestion.” 

She rolled her eyes. “I’d love to see the journal article you read that in.” They got to their feet and bundled up into their coats. 

They decided to head toward Covent Gardens. Most, if not all, of the shops would be closed already, but the Christmas lights were up, and seeing them was something she always enjoyed. They walked along a bit until they found an empty bench and sat down. 

“Did you enjoy the opera?” he asked her. 

“Immensely,” she answered. “Thank you for inviting me.” She smiled at him. “I think I might prefer your company to just casually bumping into you for intermission drinks.” 

A smiled played on his lips. He put an arm around her and drew her closer. “You’re an excellent companion.” 

“Am I?” She rested her head against his shoulder. 

He turned his head slightly, his nose grazing her ear. “Yes,” he whispered. She shivered. “Are you cold?” 

She turned to look at him. “No.” 

He stared into her eyes. She desperately wanted him to kiss her. He started to close the distance between them when suddenly, she heard herself ask the question she had been holding back from the moment he had re-emerged into her life. “How are you still alive?” 

He fell back, as if he had been burnt. He stood up abruptly, moving away from her. “Not tonight, Miss Granger,” he said briskly. 

_Shit._ She jumped to her feet. “Severus, _please,_ ” she plead. She meant, _please don’t leave._ He looked ill. He turned away from her. She reached out a hand to stop him, but was too late. He Disapparated, and she was alone, clutching at the empty air beside her. 

She sighed. “Congratulations, Granger,” she said aloud, knocking the pastry box he had left on the bench to the ground. “You’ve managed to muck that up spectacularly.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

If he had been anyone one else, she would have apparated straight to his home to apologize, proprieties be damned. However… she did not know where he lived and she had no way of finding out. She could not – would not - reach out to any of their mutual acquaintances; she had no idea who else knew he was still alive and would not be the one to “out” his secret. 

The next morning she apparated to post office in Diagon Alley. She explained to the postmaster that she needed to send an owl to a friend whose address she had misplaced. 

“Not to worry, Miss,” the postmaster assured her. “Our owls are trained to find any living witch or wizard in the British Isles, even without an address.” 

Hermione selected express delivery. She counted out seven sickles, pausing before handing them to the postmaster. “Better make it two,” she said, digging through her change purse for additional silver coins. “My friend goes by two different names.” She was led over to two very large eagle owls. She slid a letter into each of their carriers, one addressed to ‘Severus Snape’ and the second to ‘Severus Price.’ “Please find him,” she whispered to the owls before departing the post office. 

As she strolled down the nearly empty street - it was still early, and most of the shops had not yet opened – she contemplated her next move. How did one go about finding someone who had gone to such great lengths to be invisible? 

“Hermione? Hermione!” Hearing her name, she snapped out of her reverie. She cupped her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and saw a figure hurrying toward her from the other end of Diagon Alley. 

“Harry?” she asked, squinting. “Is that you?” She stopped and waited for her best friend to catch up to her. 

“Well, isn’t this luck?” Harry said by way of greeting. He fell into step with her. “What brings you to Diagon Alley so early in the morning?” He glanced at her outfit; she was dressed in jeans, a cable knit sweater, trainers and a puffy coat. “Clearly you’ve had time to go home and change since ending your date.” He smirked. “Unless you’ve got your beaded bag in your pocket?” 

“Don’t smirk; it doesn’t suit your face.” Hermione punched his arm good-naturedly. “And to answer your initial question, the post office.” 

“So early?” 

Hermione shrugged. “Christmas shopping is wearing me out. I have lost my patience for standing in line. I was up already, so I figured, why wait?” She frowned. “Wait, why are you in Diagon Alley at this hour?” 

“I might have had too much to drink last night, and bunked on George’s pull-out.” Harry grinned sheepishly. 

“What does your lovely wife think of this arrangement?” 

“Fortunately, she is in South America through the next week with Harpies. She need never know.” 

Hermione felt a twinge of guilt. She had not realized Ginny was out of town. She really had not been spending enough time with her friends as of late. 

Harry seemed to be thinking along the same vein. He laced his arm through hers. “As long as we’re both up and about, let’s get breakfast.” 

They decided to head to the Leaky Cauldron. Over the summer Hannah Abbott, one of their Hogwarts classmates, had purchased it off old Tom, and had spent the past several months renovating and updating the menu. Hermione had not had a chance to stop in herself, but she had heard from several Ministry colleagues that food was excellent. 

The Leaky Cauldron was surprisingly full for eight in the morning. “Wow,” Hermione commented. “It’s packed.” 

Harry scanned the room. “There’s a couple of seats free at the end of the bar,” he said. “Come; let’s grab them before someone else does.” 

They hurried over. “’Morning Hannah,” Harry greeted the proprietress. 

Hannah was fiddling with the valves on a large copper machine. “Good morning, Harry,” she replied. She glanced up at them. “Hermione! How nice to see you! It’s been a while.” 

Hermione smiled warmly at her former classmate. “This place looks great,” she said, looking around. It was no longer dark and drab; Hannah had lightened the décor and added a number of homey touches. 

“Thank you,” Hannah replied. “It took some work, but I think it looks alright.” 

“It’s fantastic,” Harry corrected. “And the food is even better. Two breakfast specials, please, Hannah.” 

“Coming right up,” Hannah replied, tapping her wand against the counter. “I’ll fetch your coffees. How do you take it Hermione?” 

“Black, thank you.” 

“So,” Harry said, drawing out the word. “How _was_ your date with the mystery man?” 

Hermione shrugged. “It was nice.” 

_“Nice?”_ Harry laughed. “Poor bloke, it must have been dreadful.” 

Hermione shook her head. “No. I am being serious. It was really was nice. He took me to see Aida at the Royal Opera, and then for a late supper at a Muggle bistro.” 

“Then…?” Harry prompted. Hannah returned with their coffees. Hermione gratefully accepted her mug and took a fortifying sip. 

“Then we went for a walk in Covenant Gardens to see the Christmas Lights,” she continued. She sighed. “And at the very moment I believe he intended to kiss me, I managed to ask a very personal question that seemed to put him off the idea entirely.” 

Harry furrowed his brow. “What did you ask?” 

Hermione took another sip of her coffee. “It’s not important; all you need to know is that I managed to blurt out the exact wrong thing at the precise wrong moment.” 

Hannah mercifully chose that moment to return with their food. As promised, it looked delicious. Hermione found she was suddenly ravenous. The dug into in. Unfortunately, it was not enough deter Harry from his line of questioning. 

“Who is he Hermione?” Harry pressed. “Why the big secret?” 

“It’s _not_ a big secret,” Hermione insisted, lying through her teeth. “It’s just that,” Professor Snape’s words about acquaintances verses intimates echoed through her mind. As his students, they were acquaintances, not familiars. They _did not_ know him. “You don’t know him,” she finished. 

_However, she desperately wished to._

“He wasn’t at Hogwarts with us?” 

“No, he was not a student with us at Hogwarts,” she answered carefully. “He’s a bit older.” 

“Do you like him?” 

_Very much,_ she thought. She nodded. 

“Does he like you?” 

“I thought he did.” 

“Can you apologize and move on?” 

“I’m trying,” she said with a sad smile. “Hence my early morning trip to the post office." 

* * *

After breakfast, Hermione returned to her flat. She immersed herself in busy work; tiding up, wrapping the presents she had purchased the previous week, diving back into the never-ending books on arcane ownership laws. At half two in the afternoon her mother called, wanting to know the details of her non-date date.

“We had a wonderful time, Mum.” She reported. She raved about the performance, and described every delectable dish they had sampled at the bistro. This go around, she left out their disastrous walk in Covenant Garden entirely. 

“Have you made plans to see one another again?” 

Hermione suppressed a sigh. “Not yet,” she admitted. “But I told you -,” 

“Yes, yes,” her mother answered dismissively. “You’re just friends.” 

_If that._

Around five, the two eagle owls Hermione had hired that morning, tapped at her window. Both carried her letters, marked returned to sender. They were unopened. 

* * *

Over the next week, Hermione buried herself in work. It was unavoidable; she had only five business days to submit her rebuttal on the house-elf legislation before Ministry shut down for the next three weeks.

Still… she could not stop thinking about _him._ Every evening, despite the throngs of tourists flocking to London for the holiday season, she ate her meals out at various Muggle restaurants and pubs throughout the city, hoping his trusty guidebook might lead him back to her. She need not have bothered. Not once did he appear. 

* * *

The Sunday before Christmas, Hermione spent the day finishing her shopping with her mother. They transverse the city, moving from the Southbank Winter Center to the more fashionable stores on High, Bond and Oxford streets. Disappointingly, they did not run into _him._

_He is avoiding me,_ she thought sadly, as she and her mother rummaged through the men’s section of Selfridges. Despite that, she still found herself purchasing an impossibly soft hunter green cashmere sweater that she thought would like quite elegant on his slender frame. She bought it in a size medium. If she never saw him again… well, it would probably fit Harry. 

* * *

The night before Christmas Eve, the Granger family revived an old tradition they had established long before Hermione had gone away to Hogwarts; they went to see the Nutcracker. She spent a full ten minutes trying to decide whether to bring his Christmas gift along. Ultimately, she shrunk the package and slipped it into her pocket – just in case.

When he failed to appear during intermission, she found herself quite out of sorts. 

“What’s wrong, Poppet?” her father asked her as they exited the theatre after the show. “Didn’t you enjoy the performance?” 

“It was wonderful,” she said automatically. “Beautiful as always.” She sighed. “I just thought -,” 

“Say, isn’t that your friend, Mr. Prince?” Her mother interrupted, tapping her daughter’s shoulder. Hermione looked up. There he was, not five yards from them. “Mr. Prince!” Her mother called, before she could stop her. 

They locked eyes for what felt like an eternity. _Forgive me,_ she begged silently. _Please._

He broke their gaze, and turned to address her mother, who had closed the small distance between them. “Good evening, Dr. Granger,” he said politely. He looked at Hermione’s father. “Dr. Granger.” He reached past Hermione to shake her father’s outstretched hand. 

“Did you just come from the theatre?” Her father asked. 

“Yes,” he said. “It was my first time seeing this particular ballet.” 

“Indeed?” Her mother asked with real interest. “What did you think?” 

He tilted his head slightly, as if giving the matter real thought. “The soloist was exceptional.” He turned to Hermione, who was disappointed to find his expression guarded as ever. “Which part was your favorite, Miss Granger?” 

“The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” she said, without any real conviction. It seemed ridiculous that she was standing on a street corner, having this conversation with him. They had a million other things to discuss. 

_And a kiss to finish…_

Clearly, he was not interested in either. “If you’ll excuse me, Drs. Granger. I fear it’s later than I anticipated, and I have somewhere to be.” 

Her mother looked disappointed. “Oh, are you sure? We were going to have a late supper at the Russian Tea Room. Are you positive we can’t entice you to join?” 

He bowed his head in a move that, had he not been actively avoiding her, would have appeared to be most charming. “Regretfully, I must decline.” 

“Another time, then?” Her mother pressed. 

He gave her mother a warm smile, and a sort of half nod. “Happy Christmas,” he called to them, before seemingly melting into the darkness. 

Hermione stuck a hand in her pocket. The bow on his gift – so expertly tied by the Muggle gift wrapper at Selfridges – scratched her hand. 

* * *

In the years since restoring her parents’ memories and returning them to England, Hermione had formed a new tradition of spending Christmas Eve with her parents, before journeying to the Burrow to spend Christmas Day with Harry, Ron and the rest of the Weasley clan. Normally, she adored this time of year. This year, she was having a truly difficult time enjoying herself.

_Stop it;_ she scolded herself before entering the Burrow. _He is just a man. Yes, he is a man whose company you enjoy – whom you were starting to fancy like mad – but you cannot – will not – allow him to ruin your holidays._

Plastering a wide smile on her face, she knocked on the door. 

Molly Weasley answered the door. “Hermione!” she exclaimed, pulling Hermione into a warm mama bear hug. “I was wondering how long your pep talk was going to take,” Molly whispered into her ear. Hermione pulled back, horrified that Molly had seen her. Molly smiled kindly. “Don’t worry dear, only I saw. I will have you know, sometimes, I need to give myself a firm talking to as well. Nothing to be embarrassed by.” She stepped back and took an appraising look at Hermione. “You look good, dear. I’m glad you’ve decided to join us for Christmas day.” 

“Thanks for having me, Molly,” Hermione said sincerely. She pulled out a bottle of elf-made wine and handed it to her hostess. “Happy Christmas.” 

“Thank you, dear, how thoughtful,” she said, tucking the bottle under her arm. “Come in, come in, it’s freezing out there.” She ushered Hermione inside. “Look everyone, Hermione’s here!” 

Hermione spent the next several minutes exchanging greetings and hugs with various members of the Weasley family. Eventually, she found herself seated on the sofa next to Ginny and facing Harry, who sat on an ottoman. 

“How was South America?” she asked Ginny. 

“Fabulous,” Ginny enthused. “Do you know its summer down there right now? It was such a treat to leave the cold and the snow behind for two whole weeks.” She rolled up the sleeves of her turquoise Weasley jumper. “Look, I got a tan!” 

“Did your team win?” 

“About half the matches. The teams from the Amazons play rough.” 

“Did you have any time to tour at all?” 

“A bit.” Ginny grinned. “I might have remembered a bit more of the trip if they hadn’t taken us on quite so many tequila tastings.” 

Though she was not looking at him, Hermione could feel Harry’s eyes on her. “Why are you staring at me, Harry? Have I got something on my nose?” 

“What? No. I just… I haven’t seen you in the past week and a half,” he said, emphasizing the last four words. “I was just wondering how are things?” 

Hermione gave him a look that clearly said _not now._ “Unchanged.” Arthur, who chose that moment to invite the family to gather around the table for Christmas lunch, saved her from further explanation. 

Judiciously, Hermione chose a seat at the far end of the table, beside Charlie and across from Bill and Fleur. Harry, with his pitying glances, was seated at the opposite end with Ginny, Ron and Ron’s latest girlfriend, Siobhan Templeton, a Hufflepuff from Ginny’s year. 

“Hermione!” Charlie greeted her merrily. “Sitting with the big kids this year?” 

Hermione laughed. “I thought I mind find more stimulating conversation down here.” She teased. 

“We can’t promise stimulating conversation,” Bill said with a grin. “But we definitely have the stronger alcohol.” He pulled a bottle of Ogden’s Firewhiskey out of his pocket and poured four generous measures, passing one each to his wife, brother and Hermione. He raised the final one in the air. “To Christmas?” 

“To Christmas!” The quartet clinked their glasses and downed their shots. 

The meal passed pleasantly. Hermione always enjoyed Bill and Charlie – they were both lively and talkative, and had interesting jobs and tons of adventurous – if slightly elaborated – stories to tell. As for Fleur – well, Hermione was quite sure that without Fleur’s ministrations, she would not be alive to sit here now, at this very table. Fleur was especially fun when she had a few drinks in her, and she had been drinking liberally all evening. 

“It is the first Christmas in five years I am not pregnant or nursing. Bill, fill the glasses!” She cried repeatedly in her heavily accented English. By pudding, Fleur needed a lie-down. Bill carried her upstairs to tuck her into his childhood bed. 

Hermione stared off into the distance. What was he doing tonight? Whom was he celebrating with? Was he alone? 

Charlie slid a large slice of chocolate mousse pie in front of her. “Sickle for your thoughts?” 

Hermione smiled weakly. “I’m not sure my thoughts are worth a whole sickle,” she said. 

“Does it bother you, seeing them together?” he asked, gesturing toward Ron and Siobhan. 

She shook her head. “Not at all. Ron and I ended a long time ago.” She picked up a fork and took a small bite of pie. Delicious, as always. Molly really was something special in the kitchen. “Siobhan is a nice girl. She is very patient. Loves Quidditch. A much better match for him all around, really.” 

Charlie did not answer. Instead, he lifted his fork, and took a small bite of his own. He chewed thoughtfully, before replying, “The holidays can be hard when you’re on your own.” 

Hermione took another forkful. “You said it, friend.” 

* * *

Hermione headed home around nine in the evening, her pockets filled with shrunken gifts from various Weasleys and tons of Molly’s leftovers. She had just finished resizing her presents and putting away the food when she heard a knock at the door.

“Who could it possibly be at this hour?” she asked Crookshanks, her half Kneazle cat. He meowed in response, and rolled over on the couch, clearly uninterested. She rolled her eyes. “So glad you’re the protective sort.” 

She made her way over to the door and glanced through the peephole. 

It was _him._

She opened the door. 

“Good evening Miss Granger,” he said. 

She looked at him. She honestly did not know how to respond. He waited. When almost a minute passed, he sighed. “May I come in?” he asked, uncertainly. She stepped aside, allowing him entrance. Hesitantly, he entered, pushing something into her hands as he did. She looked down. She was now holding a dozen red roses wrapped in cellophane and a small gift box. 

“I brought those for you,” he said, awkwardly. 

She lifted up the bouquet. The roses were perfect – red and lush, with an intoxicating scent. “Thank-you,” she managed. She set the gift box on the side table beside her, and went into the kitchen to find a vase. Coming up short, she transfigured a mug into something more serviceable. She pulled out a kitchen knife, carefully removing the cellophane and trimming the stems before placing them inside. 

When she returned to the living room, she saw that he had not moved. “They’re beautiful,” she said, placing her makeshift vase on the coffee table. 

“The gift is for you as well,” he said. She nodded, but made no move to open it. Instead, she took a seat on the edge of the sofa. “Aren’t you going to open it?” He asked. He sounded a bit put out. Well, that was all right. She was a bit put out that he had been avoiding her for nearly two weeks. 

“Eventually,” she answered. “I have one for you, too.” She made no move to retrieve it. “Well?” 

“Well?” he repeated. He had the audacity to look confused. 

It was her turn to sigh. She reached for her wand, and summoned two glasses and a bottle of Firewhiskey. She poured two generous servings and slid one across the coffee table toward where he stood. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice light. He did not respond. She lifted her glass and took a sip before continuing. “You’ve been avoiding me.” 

“I saw you not two days ago at the ballet.” 

“Where you tried to avoid me.” She raised her brow. “If not for my mother, you would have succeeded.” He did not respond, and she knew she had him there. “Why are you here, Professor Snape?” 

He closed his eyes. “I wished to see you, Miss Granger,” he conceded. 

“Why?” 

“To give you your Christmas gift.” He sounded… rehearsed. 

_“Why?”_

His eyes flew open. He studied her, looking, again, for… something. “I… missed your company.” He sounded pained to admit it. 

She snorted. It was quite undignified, but there you have it. “You _spurned_ my company,” she retorted accusingly. “If I’m such a poor companion, why seek me out again?” 

“I never _said_ you were a poor companion!” He argued. “Good lord, you never cease with the questions, Miss Granger!” 

“I only asked one question!” She snapped, jumping to her feet. _In for a penny, in for a pound._ “Considering _I saw you die,_ it’s not such an inconceivable question!” 

“Has it _never_ crossed your mind that perhaps you did not see what you thought you saw?” He snarled. They were inches apart. 

_Sod it,_ her mind cried. She wanted answers, wanted them badly. But even more than that – she wanted to kiss him. 

“You are so _infuriating!”_ Maybe he said it to her, maybe she to him. Maybe they both said it. It did not much matter. They grabbed for one another, closing the distance between them as their lips met in an angry, bruising kiss. 

She felt _alive._ The last time she could recall kissing anyone with such passion was Ronald, and that was during the Battle of Hogwarts. 

“Hermione,” he gasped. Was he pulling away? That would not do. She tightened her grip on him, raising her eyes to his. 

He was struggling with something. She could see it. 

“Please,” she whispered, and this time, it seemed to be the right thing to say. His lips came crashing down on hers again. This time, there was no anger. Just… desire. 

* * *

**AN: I want to thank everyone who took the time to leave comments and kudos. You keep me going.**

**I am not new to fanfiction, more like recently returned to it. I’ve been working on a longer, more complicated piece following the event of the seventh book, when this plot bunny bit. It started as a one shot and grew… I hope to wrap it up in the next few chapters.**

**Coming up next… Hermione gets some answers. Hopefully.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Their second kiss was better than the first; Hermione preferred slow, passionate, and lingering to bruising pressure. The third was better still; confident he was not about to disappear on her, she released her death grip on his collar and allowed her hands to roam freely along his back, arms and chest. Their fourth, however, quickly took pride of place as her favorite, as he moved one hand to cradle her bum while the other brushed along her left breast.

The fifth she did not care for. He had taken advantage of her moaning his name to bring number four to a close. Number five was barely a peck on the lips. Her hands firmly curled into his thick woolen cloak, she stared up at him. He was staring back down at her with a queer expression she did not know how to read.

“Severus?” she said, sliding her right hand up his chest to cup his cheek. He turned his head ever so slightly, kissing her open palm.

“It’s late,” he said. His voice sounded thicker, huskier than usual.

“It is,” she agreed. She made no move to release him. “Stay the night? No one should be alone on Christmas.”

He lifted his hand from her chest to stroke her cheek with his thumb. “It’s only Christmas for another two and a half hours,” he replied.

“I know,” she said. “Don’t make me spend it alone.”

* * *

 

To her surprise and delight, he took her up on her offer to stay the night.

They took a break from snogging for a cup of spiced cocoa and to open their Christmas gifts.  He had gotten her a book on the Italian opera masters – she suspected it was the book he bought at Camden Market – and a pair of lovely navy leather gloves.

“You never seem to have gloves,” he said, taking her hands in his and kissing each of them in turn. “One would think you lived in the tropics, instead of London. I thought navy would pair well with your brown jacket.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said sincerely. “Thank you for everything.”

He, in turn, raved about her gift. “It’s perfect,” he said, running his hand over the soft cashmere. “I don’t think anyone has ever bought me such a thoughtful, expensive gift before.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ll wear it on our next evening out.” It was hard to say whether she was more pleased by his fondness for the sweater or his use of “our next evening.”

 At some point, they moved from her sitting room floor to the bedroom. They did not have sex; “heavy petting,” Hermione believed was the phrase she had heard her grandmother Elaine bandy about before.

She still had a dozen of questions she wished to ask him. Falling asleep cradled in his arms, she decided that answers could wait for another time.

* * *

 

The next morning she woke up alone.

“Severus?” she mumbled sleepily. She padded into the sitting room. It was empty, except for Crookshanks. Had he left? _Had she imagined that he had ever been there?_ The vase of roses assured her she had not. She went into the kitchen and spotted a piece of parchment.

_Good morning beautiful_ , his note began. She smiled. Not a bad start. “Ten points to Slytherin, Professor,” she said aloud. She leaned against the counter to read his note.

_Good morning beautiful,_

_Please forgive me for leaving before you wake. You look so at peace when you are slumbering; I could not bear to wake you._

_I had planned to make you breakfast, but your fridge and cupboards seem to be bare. I know you eat – why don’t you keep any food in your house? Is this simply your custom, or is it a failing of your generation?_

_I will be back within the hour. There is coffee under a stasis charm in the pot._

_Yours,_

_~ Severus_

Hermione laughed aloud. Trust him to wrap a romantic gesture like making her breakfast in a gentle rebuke on her failings as a housekeeper. She fetched her favorite mug from the drain rack and poured herself a cup of hot coffee before heading back into the sitting room.

If he had breakfast in hand, then she would allow herself the luxury of relaxing. She settled onto the sofa, tucked a furry throw around her legs, and turned on the telly. As expected, it was all Christmas movies. She selected White Christmas, a Granger family favorite, and snuggled into the couch to watch Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen perform their floor act.  By the time the sisters were evicted from the hotel, she could hear him whisper _alohamora_ and unlock her front door.

“Sweet Circe,” he murmured, shutting the door behind him. “It’s freezing out there.”

“That’s what warming charms are for,” she replied loftily. She sat up and reached for him. He barely had enough time to banish his packages to the kitchen before she pulled him down on top of her. “Good morning,” she said, carding her fingers through his inky black hair. She kissed his cheeks, nose, forehead, the corner of his lips.

Deftly, he flipped them over. He kissed her soundly on the lips before replying. “Actually, it’s afternoon. We slept in.”

Hermione strained her neck to glimpse the oven clock. It was nearly one in the afternoon. She had only been up for maybe forty-five minutes. “When did you get up?” she asked.

“Around eleven, eleven thirty.” He brushed her bushy hair back out of his face. “I haven’t slept that well in a while.”

“I do have an extremely comfortable mattress,” she teased.

He snickered. “Yes, I’m sure it’s that, and not at all the witch I had curled against for the entire night.” He kissed her again, before cautiously sliding out from under her.

“Where are you going?” she protested.

“To make breakfast,” he replied. “Or would it be considered lunch, given the hour?”

“Brunch?” she suggested.

His nostrils flared. “Certainly not,” he replied. “Severus Snape does _not_ do brunch.” He spun on his heel and headed toward the kitchen. Her laughter followed him.

He remerged forty-five minutes later, levitating a heavily laden silver serving tray she knew she did not own. He set it down on the coffee table and lifted her legs, settling down beside her. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, leaning forward to make her a plate. “I transfigured one of your plastic trays into something more serviceable.”

“Not at all,” she replied. She admired his handiwork. “You will need to teach me that spell, though.”

“With pleasure.” He spread a napkin across her lap. “I hope you like paella and Ceasar salad with plantain chips,” he said, handing her a plate.

“Very much so,” she said. She took a bite. “Severus!” she said, crying out in surprise.

He glanced at her. “Yes, Hermione?”

“This is amazing,” she said wonderingly. She spooned a bit more of the creamy paella into her mouth. “You’re an incredible cook.”

He raised his brow. “I should hope so. I’ve been a potions master for the better part of twenty-something years.”

“What has one to do with the other?”

“Think, Miss Granger,” he teased. He patted her leg, softening the bite of his words. “Cooking is potions, just meant for consumption.”

* * *

They spent the rest of the afternoon curled up on her sofa, lazily drinking wine and talking, with liberal snogging breaks. Around nine in the evening, he stood up and announced it was time for him to go.

“Really?” she asked him. “I can’t entice you to stay?”

He gazed at her prone form, lust clearly visible in his eyes. “You definitely entice me,” he replied thickly. “Which is all the more reason I must go. I have a previous engagement that takes me out of town for the next few days.”

“Days?” she repeated.

“Yes,” he replied with a crisp nod. “I return around noon on January 1st.”

She was sure her disappointment was evident on her face. He knelt down and cupped her chin. “Will you spend New Year’s Day with me, Hermione? We can do whatever you wish. Simply pick a destination and my trusty guidebook and I shall be there at your side by one pm.”

She nodded. He gave her one last kiss and departed, warning her to put stronger wards up on her doors. “Muggle locks are for amateurs,” was his parting remark. “Constant vigilance.”

* * *

 

Hermione Granger was not, despite rumors to the contrary, a wallflower. She missed Severus while he was gone, but she kept busy.

Having spent the past twenty-four hours more or less wrapped in his arms gave her the confidence to believe that he was coming to care for her as she did for him. Therefore, she felt free to throw herself into the whirlwind of Christmas activities planned by her friends and family. First, to her mother’s sister in Ireland for St. Stephen’s day; Aunt Carol’s husband Patrick was Irish, so they always made a big to do, taking part in the local festivals. Upon returning to London, there were numerous holiday parties, including Hannah’s post-Christmas celebration at the Leaky Cauldron, Seamus Finnegan’s annual gathering of Gryffindor alums, and Anthony Goldstein’s Hanukkah party. It all culminated with the Ministry for Magic’s New Year’s Ball, an annual fundraiser started by Kingsley Shacklebolt’s wife Nimue to help provide funds for orphans and needy families still struggling from the after-effects of the Second Wizarding War. Hermione was to attend with Charlie Weasley; he had asked her at Christmas.

“Seeing as we’re both unattached, why not?” He had said. Why not indeed? She had planned to go alone, anyway. Of course, if she was given her choice, she would have had Severus on her arm, but as a rule, dead men do not attend annual fundraisers. Well, aside from a handful of ghosts.

The night before New Year’s Eve, Harry and Ginny hosted a small party at their home in Grimmauld Place – inviting just Hermione, Ron, Neville and Luna. The six of them stayed up late, talking, laughing, reminiscing, and drinking. It was a perfect end to her year.

Hermione slept over – Harry had insisted that they all stay, scared that one of his nearest and dearest might splinch themselves apparating home after consuming so many bottles of the elf-made wine Ginny had found in the recently discovered Black family wine cellar. In the morning, Hermione made a quick trip home to pick up her dress robes, before returning to prepare for the ball. Ginny was better than her at hair and makeup charms, and Hermione was grateful for her help.

Charlie showed up about twenty minutes before they planned to leave. He joined Harry in the sitting room for a firewhiskey while Hermione and Ginny finished putting the final touches on their ensembles. When they entered the living room, Charlie let out a low wolf-whistle – sometimes, he and Ron were so alike – and Hermione saw a hopeful glint in Ginny’s eye. Hermione and Harry traded glances; they both were _quite sure_ Charlie played for the other team. Besides, Hermione had confided to Harry the previous evening that it looked like things were back on track between her and her mystery man.

The Ministry Ball had become such a big event that this year it was to be held at the Hogwarts Castle. Hermione was excited to attend; she had not had occasion to visit the school in some years.

The Castle did not disappoint. The headmistress had taken her hostess duties very seriously. Hogwarts was covered in fairy lights, with hundreds of trees and ice sculptures placed throughout. It looked every inch the enchanted castle of any little girl’s fantasy. Taking in the grandeur of the Entrance Hall, Hermione whispered as much to Ginny, who readily concurred.

Harry and Charlie went off in search of their place cards, while Hermione and Ginny greeted Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick. Upon regrouping, Charlie took her Hermione’s arm in his and suggested they do a lap among the crowd before finding their table. Hermione agreed, and off they went.

It seemed everyone Hermione knew from Wizarding Britain had attended, save _him_ , of course. With every step, they were greeted gaily by friends, former classmates, colleagues and Hogwarts professors. _Even the Malfoys were in attendance,_ she thought, spotting Draco and his wife out of the corner of her eye. She could not help but wonder if Draco knew that _he_ was still alive.

Could Draco and his parents have been the ones to save _his_ life? It seemed unlikely. Wandless, they had remained until the very end of the Battle of Hogwarts in a tight little group, awaiting their fate at the hands of the Aurors. It seemed impossible that they would have had enough time to retrieve his body and bring him back to the land of the living.

No, it could not have been the Malfoys, she decided. It had to have been someone else… but who? As Charlie escorted her across the crowded Great Hall to their table, she scanned the crowd, searching for potential suspects.

Her gaze landed on Marcus Belby. Marcus was a Healer at St. Mungo’s, working in the Creature-Induced Bites department. Could Marcus have pursued that line of work because he had already saved Severus with success? _No,_ she thought, with a small shake of her head. It could not have been Marcus. She had forgotten he was a year above her. He had not been at Hogwarts at the time of the battle.

Next, she spotted Cassius Warrington and Adrian Pucey. Despite having finished Hogwarts ahead of her, they _had_ been present at the battle; she distinctly remembered them charging into the fray behind Professor Slughorn when he had returned from Hogsmeade with a large group of residents. Warrington and Pucey had both been members of the Slytherin Quidditch team in their youth and were particularly fond of their Head of House. Could they have saved him? It seemed unlikely, if only because she remembered that they had been assisting with removal of the dead from the Great Hall following the battle.

“Good evening, Miss Granger!” Professor Sinistra called to her as she passed by on the arm of a distinguished looking older gentleman Hermione was not acquainted with. Hmmm… Professor Sinistra? _Aurora_ , Severus had called her when they visited the Royal Gallery. She had been his friend. Could she have gone looking for him and saved his life? Perhaps. 

By the time they reached their table, Hermione must have considered more than a dozen wizards and witches. It was turning into a frustrating and rather macabre game.

 Shortly after the first course, the band started playing. Charlie grabbed her hand. “Let’s dance,” he said, whirling her around. She put thoughts of Severus’ savior temporarily out of her mind, allowing herself to be twirled around the dance floor, first by Charlie, then by Bill, Oliver Wood, Terry Boot, Dean Thomas, Ernie Macmillan, Ron, and then finally, the Minister for Magic himself. As she finished her dance with Kingsley, she excused herself and made a beeline for the restroom. 

“Hey girl,” Angelina Weasley, née Johnson, greeted her as she reached the first-floor lavatory. “Having fun out there?”

“It’s mad,” Hermione replied. “My poor feet have been stepped on more times than I can count.”

Angelina laughed, rubbing her very pregnant belly. “I’ve told you before Hermione – cushioning charms are your best friends when you’re dancing with drunken wizards.” She gestured to the restroom door. “It’s not too crowded in there, go find yourself a couch and take a much-needed break.”

Angelina was right; the bathroom was fairly empty, considering the size of the ball. Only a handful of stalls looked occupied. Three women were seated on the various sofas conjured for the occasion, two of them rubbing their aching feet.

A single woman stood at the row of sinks, reapplying her lipstick. Impossibly tall, blonde and thin in that way that so many purebloods witches seemed to be, Hermione recognized her at once. It was Daphne Greengrass, a Slytherin from her year. _The Slytherin Ice Princess_ , Ron used to call her. Hermione reprimand him when he did. She liked Daphne – she was very smart. They had often collaborated in their Arithmancy and Ancient Runes classes, two courses that always seemed to be light on Gryffindor and Slytherin students.

Daphne caught sight of her in the mirror and smiled warmly. “Granger,” she greeted her. She finished applying her lipstick and smacked her lips together twice before turning toward Hermione. “How are you?”

Hermione collapsed onto a nearby sofa and smiled back. “I’m well, Greengrass, how have you been?” She pulled off her shoes and stared at her aching feet.

“Can’t complain,” she said, crossing the small distance between them. “It’s been a good holiday season.” She sat beside Hermione. “Forgot your cushioning charms?” she asked sympathetically.

Hermione nodded. “I remembered the one to make my shoes more comfortable but forgot that half the wizards in attendance learned to dance from their heads of house before their Yule balls. I’m in agony.”

“I’ve got just the spell. May I?” Hermione nodded, and Daphne pulled out her wand. She whipped it around in loose-wristed motion. The pain ceased immediately.

“Thank you. You’ve got to teach me that one sometime,” Hermione said, wiggling her grateful toes.

“I’ll do it now,” Daphne agreed. “It’s one of those spells a ‘proper’young lady is taught by her mother before she begins courting.” She repeated the wand movements. Ever the eager student, Hermione got it by the second try.

“Very good,” Daphne said encouragingly. She replaced her wand in her holster. As she did, Hermione caught sight of the massive diamond on Daphne’s left ring finger.

“Daphne!” Hermione gasped. “That’s quite a ring!”

Daphne flushed prettily. “Isn’t it? Adrian finally proposed over Christmas.”

“It’s about time,” Hermione replied. Adrian Pucey and Daphne had been a couple since shortly after attending the Yule Ball together back in Hermione’s fourth year. “Congratulations. It’s stunning.”

“Isn’t it though?” Daphne said, admiring it fondly. “My sister Theia claims that it’s probably valued somewhat above the GDP of a few smaller countries.” Daphne had three sisters, each one prettier and smarter than the next. Theia, the second eldest had been in Percy Weasley’s class. She was married to a friend of Victor Krum’s and was a high-ranking official in the Department for Magical Cooperation.

 “It wouldn’t surprise me.” Daphne jingled her wrist and a flash of silver caught Hermione’s eye. Daphne was wearing a silver bangle bracelet. A _familiar_ silver bangle bracelet. Without thinking, her hand shot out to still Daphne’s arm.

“Where did you get this from?” Hermione asked, running her thumb over the bangle’s delicate fleur-de-lis pattern.

“It’s pretty, no?” Daphne replied. “It was a Christmas gift from a friend.”

Hermione released Daphne’s arm. Her mind began to whirl a mile a minute. “Must be a close friend,” she heard herself reply. Her voice sounded funny.

Daphne must have thought so, too, because she looked at her strangely. “He’s a dear friend, yes,” she replied evenly. “I helped him out a terrible jam once, some years ago. Every year, he treats me to a little trinket around the holidays to thank me for my assistance.”

Hermione’s eyes met Daphne’s, and suddenly, everything clicked into place. _She knew._

“It was _you_ ,” she breathed.

Daphne's eyes darkened as her expression turned guarded. “What was me?” she asked lamely. Hermione knew it was an act. This was not the first time Hermione had witnessed Daphne playing dumb. 

“ _You’re the one who saved him,”_ Hermione whispered insistently. “How did you do it?”

Daphne looked terribly uncomfortable. She gave a little, hollow laugh. “Granger, I think you might have had too much to drink.”

“I haven’t had a drink yet.”

It made sense. Daphne had been there when the battle began. When the Slytherins were evacuated from the castle, Daphne had accompanied them. She and her friend Tracy Davis, by all accounts Hermione had collected from the residents of Hogsmeade in the aftermath, had taken it upon themselves to see that the younger students – from all four houses – made it to the village and escaped to safety via the floo network. This put Daphne in close proximity to the Shrieking Shack, after Hermione, Harry, and Ron had returned to the castle. The timeline fit.

They stared at one another. Finally, Daphne stood and smoothed out her silvery dress robes. “It was lovely seeing you again, Granger.” She started for the exit, her heels clicking against the stone floor. She paused about halfway and gave Hermione a sad sort of smile. “Happy New Year.”

* * *

 

Hermione left the ball shortly after her confrontation with Daphne. She claimed that she had taken ill with a terrible migraine.

“Too much merriment,” she explained as she begged off. The truth was she no longer felt like celebrating.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

By the time Hermione arrived home, she was no longer faking her migraine. It had become real, accompanied by knots in her stomach and a pressing urge to throw up.

“Tea,” she said aloud. With a wave of her wand, she filled her kettle and brought it to a boil as she gathered her favorite mug, a tea bag, and a sugar cube. She assembled her drink before moving onto the living room sofa to sort out her thoughts.

Guilt seemed to be the predominant feeling. How could she have left him there alone, to die a painful death?

For years, she had convinced herself that she had done the right thing, leaving the shack with Harry and Ron when she did. After all, she had seen Severus die, had seen the light leave his eyes, witnessed his chest collapse and still as he took his final breath. They had been in the middle of a war; seeing him lay there still and unmoving seemed like confirmation enough that he was gone. There was the matter of a missing body sometime later, but Hermione and the authorities assumed that one of his Death Eater friends – thinking him loyal to the end - had come to collect the body and bury him.

Ever since he had emerged into her life during intermission at the Phantom of Opera, she knew, knowledgeably, that she and they had been wrong. Yet, until now, she had somehow managed to tap down her feelings of guilt for leaving his body – _him -_ behind. She had let herself – needed to – believe that some powerful witch or wizard whose healing talents far outstripped her own had saved him.

Discovering it had been Daphne was like a physical blow to the solar plexus. Daphne was no mystical healer. She was bright, sure, but no more educated or talented at healing magic than Hermione herself. Anything Daphne had done to save his life was something Hermione could have done herself.

Hermione had never checked for a pulse. Catching her reflection in her television set, she glared. “So much for being the brightest witch of an age,” she murmured. Her gaze trailed across the room to the roses he had given her days before. They were still as fresh as when he had brought them to her. He must have charmed them to stay that way.

Hermione placed her mug on the coffee table beside them and laid back into the cushions of her sofa. Next came pain. The ache in her heart was as real as any physical blow. She was falling for him, fast and hard. It made sense, really. They had much in common and complimented one another in the ways they differed. The report between them was natural – they never seemed to struggle for conversation, and their physical exchanges were innate. Yes, if he would let her in, she knew it would be easy for her to fall in love with him. 

Now… she groaned audibly as she tucked her knees into her chest. Yes, discovering that it had been Daphne changed everything. How could Severus stand to look at her? To touch her? How could he bear to be around someone who had so callously turned her back and walked away?

* * *

Hermione slept fitfully, tossing and turning all night. It came as no surprise to her that when she woke up in the next morning, she still felt ill. She had never dealt well with anxiety.

As it was still early, she tried a bit of meditational breathing and yoga to calm her nerves. Instead, they had a counter effect on her; she gave up two minutes into her first lotus position.

Maybe breakfast would help? She made herself a portion of dry toast and a cup of tea; she felt too queasy for coffee. She broke her own rule and ate in her bedroom, watching the New Year’s parade on the telly.

Around eleven, her mother called to invite her over to lunch. She respectfully declined.

“Oh, have you got plans?” her mother inquired. “With a certain dark-haired friend, perhaps?” She confirmed that she did.

“Good,” her mother replied, sounding pleased. “Your father and I like him.” Hermione winced. The last thing she needed was for her parents to become attached when he would soon withdraw as a fixture from her life. She tried to think of an appropriate reply when her mother continued. “Dad and I are going to get tickets to see Beautiful and Damned for the week after next. Perhaps you might ask your friend to join us?” Hermione promised she would ask, and begged off the call, claiming the need to get ready. 

Hermione treated herself to a long, hot bath. Washing up in the scalding water helped, as she felt mildly human again when she emerged from the bathroom half an hour later. She searched her closet for some warm clothes, and settled on dark blue jeans, a gray thermal Henley top and thick cream-colored jumper paired black dragon hide boots Harry and Ginny had given her for Christmas.

By twelve-thirty, she was ready to go. She slipped on her brown leather jacket and apparated to the London zoo. It was hardly a romantic destination, but in her current state, she was truly at a loss for where else they might go.

She paid the cashier at the front, took her ticket, and headed inside. She began to wander aimlessly, wondering what she was going to say. She paused at the penguin exhibit – always a favorite – and leaned her forehead against the cool glass, watching the black and white birds dive into the freezing water and swim about.

“The zoo, Miss Granger, really?” she heard him chuckle as he came up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her gently away from the tank. She rested her head against his chest, enjoying the feeling of being enveloped by him.

“Happy New Year, Professor,” she greeted him.

“Happy New Year,” he repeated. He pushed her bushy hair back and kissed on her forehead. She glanced up at him. He was smiling, his dark eyes trained on the penguins. He looked happy. Her mother was right. He really was handsome, in a dashing sort of way. She turned in his arms, sliding her hands up his chest and around his neck. His coat collar was slightly gaping, and she could see the sweater she bought him peeking out from beneath it. She brushed her fingertips against the soft material.

“You wore the sweater,” she said.

He nodded. “I promised I would.” He paused. “It’s very comfortable. Thank you, again.”

She smiled. At least she had gotten that right. They continued watching the penguins for a bit, and then she asked how his trip had been.

“It went well. It’s quite a bit warmer in Palermo right now than that it is here.” He patted the pocket of his coat. “I brought you back a few things for your empty cupboards; cured meats, cheeses, olive oil, truffles, and pasta. I could make you dinner if you wish.”

She wanted to cry. He really was perfect for her, and now she was going to lose him, all because of her own ignorant stupidity. She forced herself to contain her emotions and buried her face in his chest.

“Hermione?”

“I missed you,” she mumbled against him. His grip tightened.

“And I, you,” he replied. He lifted her head, studying her face. “You’re upset.”

“No,” she said quickly. She raised herself onto the balls of her feet and brushed a kiss across his lips. She saw his eyebrow quirk, but he let the matter drop. Lacing her fingers through his, he tugged her onward.

“Come,” he said. “As long as we’re here, I’d like to see the giraffes.” He gazed about in wonder, looking like a Muggleborn on their first trip to Diagon Alley. “I haven’t been to the zoo since I was a boy.”

* * *

After two hours of observing creatures great and small – they skipped the reptile house for obvious reasons – his patience with her unnatural behavior wore thin.

Standing in front of the lion exhibit – her house animal – he glared down at her. “What is it?” he demanded.

She forced a blank expression. “What is what?” she asked blandly.

“What is wrong with you?” He was practically snarling, and she was forcibly reminded of her days as his student. “You’ve been acting strangely since I arrived.”

 _Had she?_ She had been trying so hard to act normal.

“You’ve hardly spoken five words together,” he continued. He placed his hands on her shoulders and softened his tone. “Hermione, please. Kindly tell me what I’ve done to upset you.”

It was true; she had been quiet. She had been so intently focused on savoring what she was sure would be her last moments with him that she had barely spoken in favor of watching him take pleasure in his surroundings. She sighed. “Severus, you have not done anything wrong.”

He frowned. “Is this because I went away for a few days? I thought you understood I had a previous engagement. I was meant to leave before Christmas, but I delayed my trip to see you, and to set things right before I left.”

 _He_ wanted to set things right? Ironic, considering. She sighed and sat down on the little bench behind her. She tugged his hand, silently begging him to join her. He did.

“You have not done anything wrong,” she repeated. She paused, trying to find the right words. None was forthcoming.

“If I haven’t done anything wrong, then what is the matter?” When she continued to hold her tongue, aggravation crept back across his features. “Aren’t you bloody Gryffindors meant to be brave?” He muttered. “Almost to the point of idiotic?”

She deserved his rebuke and more. She exhaled deeply averting her gaze toward a lioness playing with one of her cubs before charged ahead. “I saw Daphne last night at the Ministry Ball.”

“The New Year’s Ball?” he asked. He sounded genuinely confused. She nodded. “Forgive me; I fail to see the connection.”

He was going to make this hard for her. Fine. “I know, Severus,” she said meaningfully. “I know it was she who saved your life.”

“Ah,” he replied. She braced herself for his anger. Instead, he reached for her, turning her to face him. He searched her eyes. He must have found what he was looking for because he nodded and stood. “Come with me,” he said, offering her his hand. She took it, and he drew her to her feet. “It seems this conversation will not wait any longer.” He pulled her toward a concealed corner of the exhibit. When he seemed sure no one was watching them, he wrapped her in his arms and disapparated them away.

* * *

He had taken them to a sitting room. “Sit,” he commanded, releasing her from his grasp. When she did not, he repeated himself, pointing to a worn brown leather chesterfield sofa adding, “Please.”

She sat.

“Don’t go anywhere.” He said. He took off his coat and tossed it on a dark blue wingchair before exiting the room. He returned moments later with a silver tea service and a packet of biscuits. Seeing that she had not moved, he scowled. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Granger.”

Hermione slipped off her jacket. “Where are we?” she asked.

“My flat in Fulham,” he replied. He set down the tea tray and waved his wand at the fireplace. A fire started instantly.

Hermione looked around. The sitting room was not overly large – maybe just a bit bigger than hers was – but had large picture windows that made it feel roomier. Bookshelves lined the walls; a cursory glance showed his collection included Muggle novels as well as ancient and arcane magical texts. He also had many plants – in floor pots, on pedestals, hanging in front of the windows. Most surprisingly, he owned an upright piano.

He took a seat across from her in a second wingchair. As he poured her a cup of tea, she jerked her chin toward the piano. “Do you play?” she asked.

“A little,” he replied. “You?”

“Not at all,” she admitted. “I had hoped to learn, but…”

“But?”

She shrugged. “Minerva McGonagall showed up at my parent’s front door and informed us that I was a witch, and accepted to Hogwarts.” He nodded and nudged the sugar bowl closer toward her. She plucked a cube out and added it to her tea.

They sat there drinking their tea for what felt like an eternity but really could not have been more than a minute or two. At last, he put his cup down and leaned back in his seat.

“Tell me what happened at the Ball.”

She was tempted to stall, to tell him all the details of her evening, but she knew he would not have borne it. “I met Daphne in the ladies. She was wearing the bracelet you purchased at Camden Market.” He made no response, so she continued. “She said it was a gift from a friend she had once helped out of a difficult situation, and … it all came together.”

“I see,” Severus said quietly. He steepled his fingertips. “Well. You always were exceptionally bright.”

“Severus.”

“What?” he asked with a shrug. “You were. You are.” He dropped his hands to his knees. “Yes, Hermione. It was Daphne who saved me.”

“How?”

He raised an eyebrow. “As I was unconscious at the time, you’ll forgive me the particulars. Let us leave it at this; I remember the snake striking me. I remember you, Potter and Weasley inside the shack. I remember giving Potter my memories. I remember Lily’s eyes...” he paused. “I thought I heard her voice, calling me, telling me that I had done my part, and now, at long last, I could rest. I tried to go to her…,”

 _Lily. Always._ Despite herself, Hermione could feel the jealousy creep into her chest.

“Then someone stopped me. I heard them shout my name and pound on my chest, felt them shove a bezoar down my throat, followed by numerous potions. A second person arrived shortly after to help the first. They applied dittany to my wounds and immobilized me so I could not move. After that, I fell back into unconsciousness. Nearly two months later, I awoke to find myself in a guest suite at the Greengrass’ home in Cambridge.”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide. “She brought you to her parents’ home?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “She felt it would be the safest place to bring me. She knew no one at her parents’ home would ever allow harm to come to me, no matter what part I might have played in the war.”

Hermione would never have thought to bring her teacher, a possible Death Eater, to her home. “How?” she asked quietly.

He raised his left hand to rub at his temples. “Very simply,” he said. “Miss Greengrass is my cousin.” 

Hermione stared at him, dumbstruck. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Daphne Greengrass is my cousin.”

Hermione gawped at him. “Daphne is your cousin?” she repeated.

He nodded. “Second cousin once removed, I believe is the proper term,” he replied. “Her great-grandfather Hadrian was the eldest brother of my grandfather Rufus Prince.”

* * *

After his confession, Severus decided it was best they continue their discussion over a late lunch. He left Hermione in the sitting room to collect her thoughts while he went into the kitchen to order them takeaway. When he returned, he sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.

“The food should be here in half an hour,” he said quietly. “What else do you wish to know?”

 _Everything,_ she thought. She wanted to know everything. Yet, she was still terrified of driving him away. He must have seen it in her eyes because he drew closer to her.

“Hermione,” he said. “Do you…I mean…,” he sighed. “You care for me, yes? The other night, it wasn’t a one-off, was it?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Of course it wasn’t!” She replied. She reached for his hand. “Severus, I’m quite attached to you,” she admitted. “Since finding out about Daphne last night, I’ve been terrified that you’re going to end things with me before they’ve really had a chance to properly start.”

“To Daphne?” he asked, confused. “I’ve just told you she’s my cousin.” He paused, and added, “And very much engaged to Adrian Pucey.”

Hermione shook her head. “Not _to_ Daphne,” she replied. “Because of Daphne.”

“Explain.”

“Because she went to find you, and I … left.”

He pulled her into his arms, kissing her gently. “Hermione, I’m only going to say this once,” he said. “You did everything right. It was imperative that Potter saw the memories I gave him, and you know if you had insisted on staying with me in the shack, he would have stayed, too, to keep you safe. He would not have viewed them on time to understand what needed to be done.”

She nodded. What he said made sense, but her guilt did not abate. “But, Daphne,”

“Daphne had a reason to come find me,” he said insistently. “She told me later that she saw everything. She saw Voldemort leave the shack, and you and your friends sneak inside. She had reason to believe I was in danger – no, not from you– this goes back further.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Do you know who Daphne’s parents are?”

Hermione did not.

“My cousin Julian is an author. He specializes in research on magic found in native cultures. I’m actually surprised you’ve never read any of his books. Iris, his wife, is the head Potions Mistress at St. Mungo’s.”

“Okay…,”

“I went to them over Christmas – something I admit I had not done since your class started at Hogwarts - and asked to borrow one of Julian’s books on snakes. He and Iris became suspicious that I was in danger – though they have never been supporters of the Dark Lord, they knew about Nagini - and told Daphne and Astoria to keep an eye on me. Both girls began to carry bezoars with them at all times, and an assortment of potions that Iris prepared.”

“Do you know who came to help Daphne?”

“Yes. I found out later that Astoria risked apparating home in order to fetch her parents. When they arrived in Hogsmeade, Miss Davis told them about Daphne sneaking off to the shack. Julian went to find her, and found the pair of us.”

Hermione knew it was tremendously petty, but she was mollified that Daphne’s parents were involved. She ran her hand along the column of his throat, to the faint silvery scare where Nagini had bitten him.

“How did they know how to heal you?”

“Trial and error. Are you acquainted with Daphne’s eldest sister, Phoebe?” Hermione shook her head, and he continued. “Phoebe is the team healer for the Holyhead Harpies. She happened to be on leave during my, er, illness, having just given birth to her first child, and took charge of my healing.”

The doorbell rang. He excused himself to go answer it. He returned a few minutes later, with a brown paper bag.

“I hope you like Chinese,” he said, sitting back down beside her and unloading the food onto the coffee table. “I’m afraid Jade Garden was the only place I knew to be open that would deliver.” She assured him whatever he ordered would be fine, and they took a break from their conversation to eat. When they finished, he banished their mess to the kitchen and looked at her. The expression on her face must have revealed she had more to ask.

Shaking his head, he readjusted them so he was laying along the length of the sofa. He pulled her into his arms, curling her into his side.

“What else do you wish to know?” he asked, running his hand along her back.

“What happened next? Who else knows that you are still alive?”

He frowned in thought. “Not many, I expect. I spent the better part of a year convalescing at Julian’s. The family kept it quiet; the girls and their husbands knew, and Julian’s sister Vivienne and her family.” He paused, as if unsure how to continue. “When I felt stronger, Theia arranged for a portkey to Italy so I could see my mother.”

Hermione gasped in surprise. “Your mother is still alive?”

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “It was she who I was just visiting in Palermo.”

“Oh.”

He chuckled. “Yes, oh,” he said teasingly. “Were you afraid I’d gone to visit an old lover?”

She blushed. The thought may have crossed her mind.

“I stayed with my mother for nearly another year. I had barely spent any time with her since becoming Dumbledore’s pawn. We never did have an easy relationship… but that’s a story for another time, I think.”

She nodded, and he continued. “After Palermo, I moved around Italy. I spent two years living practically like Muggle, just exploring the country, the culture and learning Italian.”

“Sounds wonderful,” she said wistfully.

“It was, but I was a nomad. Not having a home of my own soon grew tiring. I very nearly purchased one in a small town called Lake Garda, but when I started packing my rented flat in Milan, I came upon the travel guide Dumbledore gave me – yes, I had my meager possessions, Miss Granger, for Minerva had returned my belongings to Julian after my greatly exaggerated death.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and she laughed, despite herself. “I realized that I had never really bothered to properly explore London, and so, I passed on the villa and returned to England. I had only planned to stay a few months, but then…,”

“But what?”

He wrapped both of his arms around her and kissed her silent.

“Then I kept running into you. The first time was unsettling, as I am sure you know, given my abrupt departure from Les Misérables.”

She sighed. “It’s such a good show. You really must go back and see the second act.”

“You’ll take me, I’m sure.” She would if he would allow her. “When you kept appearing everywhere I went – the ballet, the theatre, galleries – I decided there had to be a reason for it. It did not seem like you were following me – honestly, I am not even sure how you would have been able to - but I had to make sure. That is when I approached you at the Phantom of the Opera. When I did not detect any sort of spell work from you – just a young woman honestly enjoying an evening at the theatre with her mother, I realized it was the book. Unknowingly, it had been I who was following you, and I wanted to know why. I skipped La Boheme the next week, for reasons I’ve already disclosed to you, but the week after that I found you, alone, at the cinema watching that incredibly saccharine movie.”

“You liked it,” she said.

“I did not,” he replied. “But I did enjoy having lunch with you afterward. I found you to be exceedingly good company – which should be no surprise, as you are smart, well read, cultured, adventurous, and you laugh easily at life’s absurdities. You were everything I had always hoped for in a partner but had given up on ever having for myself,” he blushed and considered he was perhaps being a little _too_ transparent. Still, he persisted. “The fact that you are beautiful just made it easier to stop seeing you as my former student and Potter’s Know-It-All best friend, and accept you as you are.”

Hermione flushed. Summoning all of her Gryffindor bravery once more, she put a finger to his lips. “I think that’s enough answers for tonight, Professor,” she said and kissed him with all the passion she felt.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 

The next morning, Hermione woke alone, in a decidedly unfamiliar bed in an equally unfamiliar room. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked around. The room was a nice size, with clean white walls and a parquet floor covered with a thick gray rug. The bed she lay in was a large four-poster made of birch, with heavy dark green hangings. On one side, there was a bookcase filled with books and the odd knickknack, while on the other was small bedside table made of the same wood as the bed. A matching dresser and armoire took up most of the opposing wall. In the far corner, she spied an oversize green chair, where apparently she had tossed her clothes. They were tangled together with a familiar dark green sweater and black trousers.

Memories of the previous evening came flooding into her consciousness. _It was real,_ she thought happily. She snuggled deeper into the bed, drawing the white duvet tight against her naked body. His cologne - a heady combination of parchment, fresh cut grass, and sandalwood – clung to the sheets.

“Good morning, Miss Granger,” she heard _him_ say. Dressed in just a pair of black pajama bottoms and a dark gray dressing gown, he was carrying two steaming mugs of coffee and a Muggle newspaper.

She smiled at him. “Good morning, Professor,” she replied teasingly. “Have you brought me coffee?”

He arched his brow and raised the cups in his hand. “Indeed.” Crossing the room, he placed the mugs and the newspaper on the nightstand beside to her, before bending down to ever so casually brush a kiss across her lips. She ran her fingers over his cheek as he pulled away.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” she asked, disappointed at the loss of contact.

He picked up his mug and took a sip. “Do you wish me to?” he asked demurely.

She rolled her eyes and patted the bed beside her. “I think we’re well past coy, _Professor._ ”

He regarded her for a moment, taking another sip. Reaching out to brush aside a curly tendril from her forehead, he murmured, “I suppose we are.” He finished his drink and banished his cup before climbing in beside her. She moved her pillow aside and waited for him to comfortably settle himself before leaning back against him. In doing so, the duvet crept down, affording him a generous eyeful of her cleavage.

She took his hand in his, threading their fingers together. “Do you have any plans for today?” she asked him.

“Most certainly,” he replied. He trailed the fingers from his free hand over her bare shoulders, before capturing her lips in a searing kiss. “I plan to map every peak and valley of your body.”

 

* * *

 

 

They parted company several hours later. Hermione was reluctant to leave him, but her standing appointment for Friday night dinner with her parents was not to be missed.

 

* * *

 

Hermione was a studious woman by nature. Normally, taking three weeks off from work – especially when she was _this close_ to achieving a goal she had pursued since her fourth year at Hogwarts - would have annoyed her. However, with a new relationship to explore, she found herself most grateful for the much-needed time off.

With the exception of Friday evening, they spent every moment together. They filled their days selecting activities advertised in local papers or consulting his travel guide. At night, they alternated between his flat and hers, becoming more intimately acquainted with one another.

Surprisingly, they fought only once, when she had suggested they eat dinner at the Leaky Cauldron. It had been innocently suggested; they had been just down the street from the Muggle side-entrance and starving when she proposed it.

“But Severus,” she argued. “It’s _right there._ ”

“Dead men do not just walk into the Leaky Cauldron,” he retorted harshly. They stared at each other. He was right, of course. Instead, they chose a Muggle pub a block away. While studying their menus, she decided to see how far she might push her luck. “How long do you intend to be dead?” she asked him as she reviewed the wine list.

He glared at her over the top of his menu. “I had intended it forever.”

She ignored his scowl. “Yes, I understand that,” she replied, keeping her eyes trained on the day’s specials. “However, seeing as you’ve willingly entered into a relationship with me, you clearly understand that won’t be possible.”

“Are you threatening me?” he asked. He sounded hurt, more than angry. She placed her hand on top of his.

“Of course not, Professor,” she said, stroking him with her thumb. “But surely you cannot expect me to keep our relationship a secret forever. Unless…,”

“Unless what?”

She pursed her lips. “Are you ashamed of being with me?”

He stared at her. “Am I ashamed of being with you?” he repeated incredulously. “If anything Miss Granger, I would think it’s quite the opposite.”

It was her turn to scowl. “I can’t believe you would think that, Severus. What would prompt me to push you to reveal yourself to the wizarding world if I was ashamed of you?” She arched her brow. “You must know I have no hidden motives here.” When he did not respond, she continued. “Severus, you’ve been exonerated of every charge levied at you in the past. Harry and Professor Dumbledore’s portrait both testified at your trial. You’re considered a hero.”

He rolled his eyes. “I assure you, I’m no hero.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Then we must be content with opposing views on the matter.” He sighed and turned his hand over so he was holding hers. “Hermione, I can’t go back there. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

“So what I am meant to do?” she asked quietly. She set aside her menu and looked at him. He had never looked so vulnerable.

“I… don’t know,” he said miserably.

“Nor do I,” she replied. She squeezed his hand. “But rest assured, I will never reveal your secret.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next three months passed quickly.

It took only five weeks for Severus Snape to become a fixture at the Granger Friday night dinners. After their argument, Hermione had expected him to be resistant to spending time with her parents; it had taken her until the evening before the Beautiful and Damned for her to summon the courage to invite him to the show, sure as she was he would decline the invitation. He did not, and the two couples had a genuinely lovely evening, parting with plans to repeat such an outing in the near future.

Her parents adored him. They enjoyed his dry, sarcastic sense of humor, the fact that he was well read, and interested in learning about new things for the sake of learning. Walter brought Severus with him to his club and taught him to golf, while Miranda convinced him to attend a writer’s workshop to help him overcome a bout of writer’s block.

Severus, for his part, liked that her parents were intelligent, open-minded, and accepting of past mistakes. “For surely,” he told Hermione one night before bed, “I have many.” Though he had never voiced it, Hermione knew he was also grateful that her parents had nearly fifteen years on him; certainly, it was easier for him to be more comfortable dating their daughter when he and her parents were not of a similar age.

It was undeniable. Hermione was falling in love with him. However, if she was being truly honest with herself, keeping their relationship a secret from her friends weighed heavily on her head and her heart. Still, she loathed bringing the topic up again, being as she was in full knowledge of his opinion on the matter.

 

* * *

 

On the morning of April third, an unfamiliar white owl tapped on Severus’ window. It was carrying a large cream-colored envelope.

“Severus,” Hermione said, nudging him gently. “You’ve got an owl.”

“It’s probably from my mother,” he answered drowsily. He was still half-asleep. “Let it in, would you Miss Granger?” he asked, using his favorite term of endearment for her.

“Sure, Professor,” she replied, using her own. She kissed him on the top of his head and went to let the bird inside. As was her custom, she gave it a few treats as she untied the envelope from its leg. The owl gobbled them gratefully before flying off. She closed the window behind it and turned the envelope over in her hand. It was stamped closed with an unfamiliar green wax seal.

“I don’t think this is from your mother, Severus,” she said, running her finger over the seal. Though Hermione had yet to meet the witch in person, they had corresponded a bit since she had become involved with the woman's son. Eileen Prince favored a copper-colored sealing wax that she embossed with a quill shape stamp.

Severus glanced suspiciously at the envelope from beneath a curtain of black hair. “Bring it here, Hermione,” he said, sitting up. “Please.”

She did as he bade, and handed him the envelope. He stared at it wearily. Unsure of what to do, she slipped his dressing gown on over the skimpy t-shirt she had slept in and went to make them coffee. When she returned, he had on his reading glasses – she adored how he looked in them – and was glaring at the envelope’s contents as if they had personally insulted him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, passing him his mug of coffee.

“It’s a bloody invitation,” he muttered. “To a wedding.” He jerked his chin toward the piece of cream parchment, inviting her to read the contents herself. She slid back into bed beside him before picking it up.

“Mr. and Mrs. Julian Canthus Greengrass and Mr. and Mrs. Magnus Theophilus Pucey -,” she paused, giggling. “My, that’s quite a mouthful.” Severus nodded glumly, urging her to continue. “Invite you to join them for the nuptials of their children, Daphne Selene and Adrian Augustus on the second of May.” She put down the parchment, baffled at how it had fouled his mood. “Severus, it’s an invitation to Daphne’s wedding, which you knew was upcoming. Why are you acting like someone has gone and run over your crup?”

“I’ve never owned a dog in my life,” he said, taking a fortifying sip of coffee. He shook his head, pushing the envelope away.  “This bloody wedding is sure to be the social event of the damned wizarding world,” he said with a sigh. “How can Julian do this to me?”

Hermione was confused. “How can Julian do what to you, Severus?” she asked. “All he did was send you was an invitation. Surely you were invited to Daphne’s sisters’ weddings?”

 “Yes, but that was different. Phoebe and Theia were married before the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“Astoria married Draco last year.”

“In a very small ceremony, as befitting the Malfoy family’s diminished social standing. He knew better than to insist I be there.”

Hermione reread the invitation. She found it lacking in instruction, and said so. He tapped the parchment with his index finger. “Read what he wrote on the opposite side.”

Hermione flipped the parchment over and saw that his cousin had added a handwritten note on the back. “We hope you can attend; it would mean the world to Daphne if you were there. Your mother told us you are dating a lovely young woman. Please extend the invitation to her as well.” She put down the letter, trying to make sense as to why it was offensive. “Are you upset your mother told him you are seeing someone?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course not,” he said, removing his reading glasses. “Not everything is about you.” He sighed again, and reached for her hand, in an effort to remove the sting from his words. “I’m upset that this isn’t an invitation so much as a summons.”

Hermione read the note again. “It doesn’t seem as such,” she remarked.

“Perhaps to the untrained eye,” he murmured. He finished his coffee and banished his mug to the kitchen. She stared at him expectantly.

“If Daphne insists upon my attendance, I must acquiesce,” he explained. “How can I deny my savior anything – especially when she’s getting married on the anniversary of the very day she saved my life?”

 

* * *

 

 

The dark cloud of Daphne’s invitation hung over them for the remainder of the weekend. No matter what Hermione did or said, she was unable to shake him from his bitter mood. It was a relief to them both when she finally gave up and returned home early the next afternoon.

To Hermione’s surprise, there was a cream-colored envelope of her own waiting for her by her front door. She snatched it up and opened it hastily. Daphne had invited her to the wedding. She flipped it over and was surprised to find a note on the back of her invitation as well, this one penned in Daphne’s flowery hand.

_Hermione,_

_I hope you are reading this on Sunday. Please meet me this evening at the Leaky Cauldron, at eight o’clock._

_\- Daphne_

Hermione glanced at the clock on her cable box. It was only three. “I wonder what she wants,” she said aloud, bending down to rub Crookshanks behind the ear. The Kneazle purred but offered no further insight.

She considered ringing Severus and asking him what he thought she wanted but decided better of it. If Daphne had meant for her to read the letter today, then she desired her intentions kept private.

Hermione spent the rest of the day, intermittently cleaning her flat while watching a marathon of a detective serial on the telly. At a quarter to, she applied a quick swipe of lipstick and ran a brush through her rebellious hair before apparating to the pub.

The Leaky Cauldron was less crowded than it had been on the previous occasions Hermione had managed to visit. Hermione greeted Hannah and ordered a drink before sliding into an empty booth in the corner.

Daphne arrived at eight on the dot. She looked resplendent in a set of royal blue robes, her blonde hair plaited in a complicated hairstyle that would not have looked amiss in an Arthurian portrait. Hermione, dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, felt woefully underdressed.

“A gillywater, Hannah, please,” Daphne called as she made her way across the bar to Hermione. She slipped into the booth without ceremony. “Please forgive the hair, Granger,” she greeted her, swatting at it uncomfortably. “I’ve come from a trial at the hairdresser, and she’s quite overdone it, I think.”

Hermione thought it looked magnificent and said as much. Daphne shook her head. “It’s too much. Hair is meant to accentuate a bride, not overshadow her.” Hannah brought their drinks over and left menus on the table before discreetly taking her leave. Hermione removed the lime from the rim and mashed it into her beverage before staring at Daphne, expectantly.

“Thank you for meeting me on such short notice,” Daphne began. “I wanted to speak to you about-,” she paused, noticing that they had attracted the attention of nearby table. She whipped out her wand and muttered, “ _Muffliato.”_

Smart, Hermione thought.

“Sorry about that,” Daphne apologized. “But I’ve no wish to be overheard. I want to talk to you about Severus.”

“Severus?” Hermione asked innocently. “Do you mean the dearly departed Professor Snape?”

Daphne regarded her shrewdly. “Let us speak plainly, shall we? I apologize for my deception at the New Year’s Ball.” She sipped her gillywater, measuring her words. “I wasn’t aware of what you knew, and, well…they weren’t my secrets to share.”

True. Hermione leaned forward.

“I’ve managed to puzzle together, from our interaction and Cousin Eileen’s letters, that you and Severus are seeing one another. Have been, apparently, for some time now.” She paused, looking at Hermione for confirmation. She nodded stiffly, as there seemed little point in denying it. “Good,” Daphne said approvingly. “He’s been on his own for far too long, honestly. Aunt Vivienne said he spent half his pining after a dead woman who never loved him back, and frankly, I find that simply tragic.”

Hermione was not sure how to respond. She looked down at her drink.

“Oh, darling, I don’t mean to make you feel bad,” Daphne said. She patted Hermione’s hand. “Bloody hell, I’ve bollixed this up, haven’t I? Let me start again. I am tremendously happy you are dating my cousin. He is a special person, and he deserves to be with someone who makes him happy. Before you ask, we – my family and I – know you do. Or rather, I know _you_ do, while my family simply knows that he is dating _someone_ and that he is, as a result, happier than we have ever seen him. Not that we see him often, mind…”

Hermione wondered when they saw him at all. It seemed, to her at least, that they were always together, prodigiously avoiding British wizarding society and everyone associated with it. As if reading her mind, Daphne continued. “Not that we’ve seen him, mind, but Dad is always in touch with him. He’s told you that Dad is acting as his intermediary between him and his publisher since he continues to refuse to let anyone else know he is alive.”

He had not told her that, but Hermione was unsurprised to learn it. Severus had said that Daphne’s father was a well-respected author; it made sense to use him to get his Potions textbooks published. “Daphne -,”

“Wait,” Daphne said, cutting her off. “I’ll get to my point. It is this – we are tired of his living in hiding. We respect his desire for privacy – he has always been so fiercely private, even as a young man – but he is a hero, Hermione, as much as you and your friends, and he deserves to be recognized as such. At the very least, he should not be forced to live out his life in hiding.”

“I agree,” Hermione said. “But he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s alive. He said there are only a handful of people or so who knows it.”

“That’s true,” Daphne agreed. “My parents, my sisters and their husbands – minus Draco, of course - and I, and Vivienne and her husband. Vivienne’s children do not even know – Severus stopped coming ‘round for Christmas after he was healed up enough to move on to Italy.” She took another sip of her drink. “We miss him. We want him to be part of our lives, especially now that he is finally free of his double allegiances. You know, being stuck at Hogwarts was practically imprisonment for him.”

Hermione nodded again. He had told her as much.

“Besides, you’re very much part of the magical world, employed at the ministry and all that. I imagine your relationship has become rather serious, being as you are both the serious sort. Don’t you wish to get married one day? How are you going to do that when he won’t even allow you to tell your closest friends he’s alive?”

Hermione wondered if Daphne was a Legilimens. She seemed to be hitting on every thought Hermione had worked hard to repress since becoming involved with Severus Snape.

Daphne was staring at her. She expected Hermione to answer. “I don’t know,” Hermione replied shakily. She sighed. “Yes,” she admitted. “I could see us married, one day. I like to think that’s the direction we’re headed…” Truthfully, she had no idea if he felt the same. For all their endless hours of conversation, they had never discussed moving into together, marriage, or children. Nothing beyond their plans for the next week or two. “We’ve never talked about it,” she admitted.

Daphne frowned. “Well, I think it’s high time you have that conversation. Granger, I know we don’t know one another well – a failing on both our parts, I think, because I always liked you well enough when we were at school, especially in the later years when we studied Arithmancy and Ancient Runes together – but I think you deserve to happy as well. And no one can be truly free if they are forced to hide such an important part of their lives from their friends.” She pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill and scribbled an address on it. “That’s my address, Hermione. Speak to Severus. When you are ready to come out with your relationship, let me know. I’ll do everything in my power to help soften the blow.”

With that, the blonde witch finished her drink and stood. She tossed a few galleons on the table – more than enough to pay for both their drinks – and left.

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next week, Hermione replayed her conversation with Daphne in her head at least a hundred times. She knew she ought to mention it to Severus – at least in part – but the opportunity never presented itself. She had not heard from him all week; it seemed he was avoiding her.

By Thursday, she grew impatient with his silence. After lunch, she apparated directly to his flat. She had no trouble entering it, as he had programmed the wards to recognize her magical signature weeks prior. She called out his name and headed for his study, expecting him to be at his desk, slavishly revising his textbook. The first of the series was due at his publisher the following week.

His study was empty. Hell, his entire apartment was empty, save for Seraphina, who rejoiced at seeing her. She gave the owl a treat before entering his bedroom.

She sat on his bed. Now what, she wondered. She decided she should at least leave him a note, lest he thinks someone had managed to break in. She looked around for a spare bit of parchment when his travel book caught her eye.

 _Did she dare?_ She knew how the book worked, as they had used it together. Before she had time to form a plan, the book was in her hand, her wand poised against the embossed cover. “ _Point me_ ,” she directed it. The book flew open and an advert for the Regent’s Park in Primrose Hill glowed. She knew the park well. It was just down the street from her parents' practice.

“Curious,” she murmured. She replaced the book on the shelf. What was he doing in Primrose Hill? More importantly, what was she going to do about it?

Screw it, she thought. Clearly, she was going to go see what was going on. She transfigured her work robes into something more appropriate for venturing out into the Muggle world and gave Seraphina another treat before disapparating for her parents' practice. She was grateful that they kept a small utility shed behind the redbrick building; it had, on several occasions, spared her from accidentally frightening one of their unsuspecting patients.

Carefully, Hermione made her way out of the shed and down the street. She entered the park. Disappointingly, he wasn’t in her immediate line of vision. Not wishing to traipse across the entirety, she discreetly withdrew her wand and laid it flat on her palm. “ _Point me_ ,” she said. Her wand spun, pointing southeast toward the duck pond. She replaced her wand in her pocket and started along the trail.

She found him relatively quickly. He sat on a bench, facing the ducks. Next to him was an attractive woman with dark hair. Hermione’s eyes widened with surprise as she recognized her. _What was he doing with Professor Sinistra?_

Hermione moved behind a tree. She was torn. She knew she should go home. Yet, she found she could not. Before she knew what she was doing, her wand was out of her pocket again, along with a compact mirror. When she was certain no one was watching her, she waved her wand against herself, casting a number of glamor charms. Gone was her bushy brown hair and brown eyes, replaced with longer, sleek blond locks and eyes the color of the robes Daphne had worn earlier in the week. After a second’s hesitation, she softened her jawline as well and added a small mole above her lip on the left side. _That’ll do,_ she thought. She looked like an entirely different person.  Pulling a book out of her purse, she moved closer to their bench, taking a seat on the grass. To anyone passing by, she simply looked like a local taking in a few minutes of early April sun during her lunch break. _Instead of a jealous and potentially deranged girlfriend spying on her significant other,_ she thought.

Hermione opened her book and tried to focus. It took her a moment, but she was soon able to discern their voices from among the general din of the park.

“It isn’t going to work,” she heard him say morosely. Her ears perked. What wasn’t going to work?

“I don’t understand why,” Professor Sinistra. “It’s worked thus far. You’re happy, aren’t you, Severus?”

“What is happy, Aurora?” he replied. Hermione watched as Professor Sinistra tossed something at him. “Fine, fine,” he said, cowering slightly. “Yes. I’m happy. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my forty-four years of existence,” he answered. “She’s everything I have ever wanted, and then some.” Hermione blushed. She suspected he was speaking about her. “She understands me in a way that I don’t think anyone else has ever bothered to try.”

“Even -,”

_“Yes.”_

“Which is why I don’t understand,” Professor Sinistra repeated.  “If everything is well, then what is the problem?”

“I’m not enough for her.”

Professor Sinistra laughed. “Darling, I say this with all the love in the world, but you are a lot. I’m quite sure you’re more than enough.”

“No,” he said sharply. “She’s young. We have never discussed it, but I am sure she wants a family. I can’t give that to her.”

“Why? You are still young yourself. Even Muggle men are able to produce children well into their seventies. As a wizard in his prime, there’s no reason you couldn’t as well.”

Hermione heard him sigh. Pretending to turn the page, she struggled to hear his muffled response. Fortunately, her former teacher seemed to suffer from a similar affliction.

“Come again, darling,” she said lazily. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

He shot to his feet. Hermione froze – he seemed to be staring in her direction. He must not have noticed her, though, as he continued.

“What kind of life can I give her?” He said. “A life in hiding is no life at all. We have been together for over three months. I keep waiting for her to give me the boot.”

Professor Sinistra wrinkled her nose. “Such a charming Muggle expression,” she drawled. He stared at her archly, but she paid him no mind. “Severus,” she continued. “You must get over yourself. If you are a man on the run, then it is because you have chosen it. Surely, you understand that there is no place in our world that would turn you out. Why, if you were to stroll into Minerva’s office tomorrow and demand your old position back, she would toss out Sydelle Smiley and have you signing a fresh contract so fast -,”

“Aurora,” he said warningly. “I will never go back _there_.”

“Nor do I expect you to,” she answered with a casual shrug. “It still doesn’t change the facts, Severus.” She reached for his hand, and Hermione felt a twinge of jealousy at how easily he relaxed in her grasp.

“Severus, we have been friends since we were eleven years old. I know that you have done and seen things that weigh heavy on you, not the least of which are the circumstances for surrounding _their_ deaths. But…”

Suddenly Hermione heard a buzzing. Someone must have cast a _Muffliato_ spell. A shadow fell across her and she glanced up, sure she had been caught.

She had, but not by _him_. Peering down at her was none other than her best friend, Harry Potter.

 “That’s enough, Hermione,” he said quietly. He held out his hand to her. “Come. Let’s go.”


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Hermione stared up at Harry. _What in the bloody hell,_ she thought.

“What are you doing _here_?” she hissed.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he retorted. “Come on. We have to get out of here.” He glanced over his shoulder at Severus and Professor Sinistra. “ _Now,_ if you don’t want a scene.”

Hermione huffed and looked over at the bench. Severus and Professor Sinistra were still speaking, their dark heads bent close together. As long as Harry shut his mouth and kept out of their sight, it seemed unlikely any kind of scene would ensue.

“Get down,” she whispered insistently.

“Get up,” he replied. “Or I promise you, I _will_ go over there.”

Hermione glared at him. She doubted he would make good on his threat to blow her cover, but the simple act of him standing there would do it for him if Severus were to look over.

“Fine,” she snapped, smacking away his hand. She got to her feet and followed him to the entrance of the park. She started to exit, but he grabbed her arm.

“Remove your glamors first,” he said, pointing to a partially hidden alcove. “Please,” he added when she made a face.

“I don’t see how you saw through them in the first place,” she muttered. Harry had the audacity to laugh.

“I may not be as smart as _you_ , Hermione,” he said. “But I am an Auror. I spent the better part of two years training to see through them.” She rolled her eyes. “Besides, you’ve been my best mate for almost fifteen years. We lived in a tent together, even _shared_ a bloody _wand._ I can detect your magical signature from a kilometer away.”

Well, Hermione thought somewhat mollified; at least his Auror training was good for something. Even if he _had_ nearly blown up her rather precarious spy mission. She pulled her wand discretely from her pocket and murmured, “ _Finite Incantatem.”_

“Thank you,” Harry said. “The blonde hair and round jaw were unsettling.” She raised an eyebrow and he explained. “You looked too much like this dark witch we caught just a few weeks ago. She led us on quite the chase throughout Wales.” He tapped at a small scar still visible on his chin. “She gave me this.”

“It’s healing nicely,” she said dismissively as she put away her wand. “Will that be all, then?”

_“Will that be all?”_ he repeated incredulously. “Hermione, what the hell did I just walk in on?”

“Shhh,” she hissed again. “Not here, Harry, if you please,” she said. She tried to think. “There’s a pub across the street. Let’s duck in there.” Harry shook his head in disbelief but followed her.

A short while later, they were settled into a booth at the back of the pub, each with a frosty beer in front of them. They ignored their drinks, staring at one another expectantly.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well?” he replied.

She narrowed her eyes. “Does this work for you, in the Auror office?”

“Does what work?”

“Parroting back whatever your suspect says?”

Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“What were you doing in Regent’s Park?” she asked. “Were you following me?”

He opened his eyes. “Yes, as a matter of fact.” Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise. “Hermione, none of your friends have seen you in weeks, outside of work. As it is, I stopped by your office today to invite you out to drinks with me and the boys tonight, and your assistant said you never returned from lunch.” He paused and took a sip from his beer. “I stopped by your flat and found it empty, so I apparated to your parents’ practice to see if they had seen you. Imagine my surprise when they told me you’ve been holed up with your ‘boyfriend’ for weeks now.”

Hermione bit her lip. Had her parents inadvertently outed _his_ secret?

“I went out back to use their tool shed to apparate home when I saw you emerge from it,” he went on. “So I followed you, figuring I’d catch a glimpse of you and him together.” Harry raised his brows. “Imagine my shock when I saw you sneak into the park, glamor yourself, and then spy on a conversation between Professor Sinistra and a _dead man._ ”

Ah. Perhaps not, then. Hermione folded her hands and looked down at her nails, waiting. Unfortunately, Harry had become adept at waiting as well. Hermione sighed and looked up at him.

“What did I walk in on, Hermione?” he asked quietly. “What were you doing in the park? How long have you known he was alive?”

Hermione sighed again. She did not want to answer. She had sworn to _him_ she would not reveal his secret. Yet… she knew Harry would never let it go if she did not. Maybe if she framed the narrative, he would leave _him_ in peace. Decided it was easier to answer the latter, rather than the former, she said, “Eight months.”

“ _Eight months?”_

Hermione nodded and then shook her head. “No. I suspected for eight months,” she replied. “I’ve only _known_ for about six.”

Harry’s mouth hung open. If it all was not so terrible, she might have told him to close it, lest he catches flies. But it was, and she didn’t.

“Explain,” he commanded. “Now.”

Hermione flexed her jaw. “I first saw him in September,” she began. “Do you remember when my mother took me to see Les Miserables for my birthday?” He did not, of course, so she continued. “I saw someone who looked like him in the theatre, but I didn’t know it _was_ him until much later.” Bowing her head, she told him a diluted version of the tale – how they kept running into one another and started spending time together. She left out Daphne and her family; she felt it was not for her to tell Harry that Daphne had saved Severus’ life or the Prince family connection. When she finished, Harry stared at her, flabbergasted. He opened his mouth to speak, and then seemed to think better of it.

His silence made her uncomfortable. “Say something,” she demanded.

“I don’t know what to say,” he replied. “I still can’t believe he’s alive.” He scratched his chin. “Have you really been dating the greasy git for the past three months?”

Hermione recoiled. “He’s not a greasy git, Harry, and I’ll thank you for never using that term in my presence again if you wish to hang onto all of your dangling bits.”

A smile played at the corner of his lips. “You know, he’s our parents’ age.”

 “No,” she corrected automatically. “He’s _your_ parents’ age. _My_ parents did not marry straight out of school and immediately start having babies. They waited until they finished dental school and got their practice off the ground.”

“Touché,” Harry replied. Harry was full on grinning now. “You realize I’m just winding you up, don’t you?”

She did now. She frowned, and Harry reached across the table to take her hand in his.

“Listen,” he said, giving it a squeeze. “You’re my best friend. I love you, no matter who you decide to date. However, there is a much bigger issue at play here – you know that yeah? If I found out, others will too.”

Hermione pursed her lips. He was right, of course. She nodded, and then he voiced what she had been thinking, but dared not say aloud.

“Either Severus Snape has to come out of his self-imposed ‘death,’ or leave England. He simply won’t be able to carry on as is.”

* * *

 

 

Hermione and Harry parted company a short while later. He had practically begged her to join him, Ron, George, and Neville for drinks at the Leaky Cauldron, but she cried off, stating the need to gather her thoughts.

She headed straight home from the pub, where she quickly became overwhelmed by the silence of her apartment.

It was funny, really, she thought as she laid back on her sofa, tucked under her favorite blanket. Quiet had never bothered her before; in fact, she used to relish in it. Six years of boarding school, a year on the run in a small tent, another year of boarding school, followed by a year of sharing 12 Grimmauld Place with Harry, Ron, and Neville had left her desperate for her own place. When she found the flat in Knightsbridge, she had jumped on it, despite the boys’ protests. She had kept it when her parents returned to the continent, citing her continued need to have a place of her own. It was only in the past few months when she had begun to share the little flat part-time with Severus that she had begun to realize that she actually enjoyed sharing a space with someone else.

_Severus._ Her heart lurched. What was she going to do about him?

She was not proud of the fact that she had opted to spy on him. She knew better. But… he had been avoiding her for days, and if she interpreted his conversation with Professor Sinistra correctly, he was looking for a way out of their relationship. Even though, by his own admission, being with her made him happy. _Why would someone willingly give up a relationship with someone who made them happy?_

It was not as if they did lacked the support of their respective families. Her parents were truly fond of him and had readily accepted him into their lives. Likewise, his mother seemed eager to meet her in person, and Daphne had vocalized support from the remnants of the Prince family. After speaking with Harry, she knew her friends would come around as well – after the initial shock of his return to life wore off.

Hermione sighed. The time had finally come. They needed to have _the_ talk. She had managed to put it off until now, but between the invitation to Daphne’s wedding and Harry’s subsequent discovery, it seemed that it could no longer wait.

That terrified her.

There was always that point in a relationship when decisions needed to be made about its permanence. The period was always different – with Ron, it had taken two years, while her successive short-lived relationships with Terry Boot, Oliver Wood and a Muggle named Ashton Peters had taken seven months, four months and three and a half weeks, respectively. Usually, these conversations occurred when Hermione realized that she wanted certain things out of her life, and if her partner’s plans did not align with her own, then she preferred to be on her own. She had not yet reached that point with _him._ She desperately wanted him in her life, no matter how he chose to fit into it.

However, fate had seen fit to take the timetable out of her hands. As Hermione began to succumb to sleep, she resigned herself that they would speak the next day.

* * *

 

 

In the weeks since Severus began joining the Granger’s on Friday evenings, he and Hermione had fallen into a comfortable routine for their day. They would each head to work – her at the Ministry, he at the local library where he would painstakingly type out his manuscript – and then meet at her flat at half past five, before apparating to her parents’ home together at six.

This week, half past five came and went, with nary a sign from _him._ If Hermione had not spotted him the previous day in full health, she would have been exceedingly worried about his welfare. Instead, she was aggravated. With the clock ticking toward five fifty, she contemplated her next move. Should she head to her parents alone, or go to his place and demand – something. An explanation, at the very least.

It took her seconds to rule out the latter. She wanted, needed, to speak with him, but she still had her dignity. _He_ could wait until after she enjoyed a nice dinner with her parents. Even if they would inevitably spend half the evening asking her where he was.

At six on the dot, she threw on her jacket and Gryffindor scarf and gave Crookshanks a quick pat on the head before apparating to her parent’s backyard garden. It was empty, and Hermione quickly deduced that her mother must have talked her father out of barbecuing this week for more standard British cuisine. Hermione hoped it meant there would be a roast with potatoes; she was very much in the mood for comfort food.

She slid open the kitchen door and stepped into the house. The kitchen was empty, and the stove and oven were off. No roast, then, Hermione thought, with just the smallest trace of disappointment. She removed her jacket and scarf, folding them over one of the kitchen chairs before heading into the living room. It was dark and empty as well. How odd. Reflexively, she reached for her wand.

“Mum? Dad?” she called out, flipping her finger against the light switch. “Anyone home?”

“Good evening, Miss Granger.”

Hermione would have jumped out of her skin, had it been anatomically possible. “Holy shit, Severus!” she cursed, clutching her hand over her heart. She breathed deeply, trying to still her erratic heartbeat. “What are you doing here?”

He had been sitting in her father’s favorite recliner but had gotten to his feet when she turned on the light. As he moved closer, she could see he looked hurt by her question. “It’s Friday evening,” he said carefully. “Where else would I be?”

Hermione sank down onto the sofa. “I haven’t seen or heard from you in nearly a week,” she murmured. “When you didn’t show at my flat, I figured you were not coming.”

“My apologies,” he replied. “I finished work early and decided to walk here from the library. The weather was mild for the first time this week.” He took a step closer to her, and then paused, seeming unsure of himself. “I should have rung you, I know, but I had forgotten my mobile at my flat.”

“You could have sent a Patronus.”

He smiled wryly. “I tried. I seemed to have some difficulty producing one.”

She was surprised to hear it. She had never known Severus to have difficulty doing anything magical. “Why were you sitting in the dark? Where are my parents?”

“I had sufficient light from outside,” he said with a shrug. “Your parents went to fetch dinner. Apparently, the takeaway driver got stuck in traffic.”

Hermione nodded. Her heartbeat had returned to normal. She lowered her hands and tucked her wand away, back into her pocket. She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering herself. “When did they leave?”

“A few minutes before you walked in. They expect to be back within the twenty minutes.”

Hermione opened her eyes and glanced at the clock over the mantle. It was ten past six. They probably had about ten minutes. She pat the spot beside her on the sofa. “Sit, Severus, please.”

He sat down heavily beside her. Instinctively, she reached for him, pulling him closer to her as she rested her head against his shoulder. She kissed his neck tenderly. “I missed you.”

He rearranged himself so he could place his arms around her. “I missed you, too,” he said, gently kissing her head. “Hermione, I’m sorry I disappeared on you like that. I’ve never been very good at handling difficult situations, and I thought it best to retreat into myself, rather than saddle you with my unpleasant mood.”

“I can handle your unpleasant moods,” she mumbled. “I spent six years building up a tolerance to them.”

He chuckled. “As my student, yes, and at the time, I felt no compunction in unleashing them upon you and your unruly classmates.” He leaned back slightly and brushed away her hair, looking into her eyes. “Things are different now. You are my … girlfriend. Lover? Paramour? I am not sure which word fits best. Regardless, I was afraid that I might frighten you off.”

“You needn’t be frightened. I don’t scare easily.”

“I know Hermione,” he agreed. “You are the bravest witch I know, in addition to the smartest. More than I deserve.”

She frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t say that, Severus. Surely you know -,” she paused. Did she dare? _Yes,_ her mind insisted. _Now was the time._ She drew the fingers of her right hand up, and lightly traced them across his cheek. “I’m in love with you, Severus. I love you. _I want you_. Toxic moods and all.”

His eyes widened. “I -,” he started, and stopped, taking a deep breath. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He forced a wry smile. “I’ve been informed, quite recently, that I’m a _lot.”_

“Some have said the same of me,” she replied easily. “But to answer your question, yes. I am sure. I know we have not been together for that long, but from the moment you reappeared in my life, I was drawn to you. When we are not together, I think about you constantly. I crave your touch, your kisses, your body, your conversation, your dry sense of humor and your sharp wit.” She ran her fingers over his lips, before moving down his chin and along his neck before resting over his heart. “I love you,” she repeated.

He stared at her. “Hermione,” he breathed. “I -,”

Outside, the lights lining the front path illuminated. Hermione could hear her mother laughing at something her father had said. Hermione placed a finger over his lips.

“My parents are back,” she said. She removed her finger and brushed her lips gently across his. “We’ll continue this later?” she asked. He nodded his assent, and she rose to her feet to greet her parents.

* * *

 

Dinner was an awkward affair. Her parents were their usual talkative, lively selves – her mother, especially - but Severus was quiet and withdrawn, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.  Her father had had to ask him three times to pass the new potatoes before getting a reaction from him.

“Is Severus alright?” Her mother asked her later, as they washed the dinner dishes and prepared dessert. “He seems sort of…off… this evening.”

Hermione was unsure of how to respond. She could not tell her mother about everything that had happened over the past week – not now, when he was just two rooms away, sipping brandy with her father. Instead, she said, “He’s preoccupied. His first book is due at the publisher next week.”

Her mother clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Poor dear,” she said, with a small shake of her head. “That must be nerve-wracking.” Her mum set down the tea towel she had been using to dry the good china. “You know, I thought of writing once, but the anxiety of sending the manuscript around simply did me in…”

After pudding – a glorious Victoria sponge with fresh strawberries - she and Severus bundled up and headed outside. “My place?” she asked. He nodded. She wrapped her arms around him, and he pulled her close, Side-Along apparating her to her flat.

Crookshanks was waiting for her impatiently. “I better feed him,” she said, taking a reluctant step back. He nodded again, wordlessly withdrawing from her. She went into the kitchen and set about preparing the cat’s dinner. She also brewed a pot of tea; she did not want any, but perhaps he did.

She returned to the living room to see him still standing by the door. She raised her brows at him curiously. “Won’t you come in, Professor Snape?” she asked. She kept her tone light and teasing, but it was a struggle. He looked ready to bolt and seemed to wince at her rebuke.

“Sorry, Hermione,” he said. He removed his coat and sat down on the couch. She set the tea set on the table and joined him.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

She prepared two cups, sliding his closer to him. He thanked her but made no move to drink. Sighing, she forced herself to take a sip of her cup. She needed him to speak first.

After a few moments of silence, he obliged. “Hermione,” he began. “I’m not really sure where to begin. I have been in shockingly few relationships. None was serious – there was one that lingered for a few years, but there was no real emotion behind it. She needed me so she would not be alone… I needed her to help me forget my past.”

_Lily,_ she thought. _Always._

As if reading her thoughts, he looked at her. “Did Potter show you the memories?”

“No,” she said with an emphatic shake of her head. “He told us – Ron and I – about them, but we never viewed them. We felt it would be an invasion of privacy.” Hermione thought it was, anyway. Ron would have happily done so and brought along popcorn, had she not put a stop to it.

He nodded. “It would have been fine if you had,” he said. “I gave Potter what he needed to understand. Nothing more.”

_Nothing more._ Two little words that revealed nothing, and yet, she knew. His love for Lily had not been one-sided – not always.  At some point, _she_ had loved _him_ back. That was why he clung to her memory, why he could not let her go.

“Severus,”

“Please, let me finish,” he said, reaching for her hands. “I care for you deeply, Hermione. Everything you said to me earlier, it is an echo of how I feel for you. I think about you. I _crave_ you. _I want you._ ” He reached squeezed her hands. “I’m scared to lose you.”

“You won’t-,”

“I’ve destroyed every good thing that has ever come into my life, Hermione,” he said, shaking his head. “Look how I pushed you away this week -,”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” he exclaimed. “Hermione, I am a cruel, jealous, petty man.”

“You’re not.”

“ _I am,”_ he insisted. “I am trying to restart my life, and _live_ , Hermione, but I’m still me. Tigers do not change their stripes. Snakes may shed their skin, but they are still the same creature they always have been, underneath.”

He was trying to lose her in metaphors. “I want to be with you, Severus,” she said quietly. “I am not young, or stupid. I know we will fight spectacularly at times – I do not care. It’s normal.”

“I cannot give you a normal life.”

“What is normal?” she replied. He glared at her. She glared right back.

“Hermione.”

“Severus.”

He sighed. “I’m old.”

She laughed. “You are ridiculous. You’re forty-four.”

“I’m unemployed.”

“You’re writing a series of books.”

“They could fail.”

“They could,” she agreed. “They won’t, though.” She moved closer to him, closing the gap between them. “Severus, you are brilliant. Your books will be brilliant. Employment is a temporary state, anyway. I could lose my job tomorrow.”

He snorted. “Unlikely.”

“You never know,” she said with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, for better or worse, I would stick by you. Besides…” she trailed off.

“Yes?”

She exhaled deeply. “If you would come out of hiding, I’m sure you would not remain ‘unemployed’ for long. You are a h-,” she wanted to say ‘hero,’ but knew he hated hearing it. “A renowned expert in Potions and the Dark Arts. People would fight to have you.”

“Your friends would abandon you for being with me.”

She lifted her brow. “I don’t believe that for a second, and if I’m wrong, well, then they weren’t very good friends, to begin with.”

He studied her. “Do you want children?”

“This minute? No.”

“Hermione.”

“Yes, eventually,” she admitted. “Why are you asking me? Are you sterile?”

He seemed surprised by her question. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Then why is this an issue?”

“They’d be tarnished by my name.”

“Then they’ll take my name. You can have it as well if you wish. Dad never got to have a son. I’m sure he’d be pleased to share our name with you.”

“Hermione.”

“Or you could take the name Prince, officially. It’s yours by right, anyway.”

He did not answer, and she sighed again. “Children are not a deal breaker for me, Severus. Your reputation is not, either. The only thing that is, is your stubborn insistence on hiding forever. _That_ , I could not live with. Everything else is negotiable.” She gripped his hands tighter. “ _Please_ , Severus. Please come out of hiding. I want to be with you. _Your family_ wants to be with you.”

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the sofa cushions. This time, he was quiet for so long, she was tempted to check his breathing. Finally, he exhaled.

“Okay, Miss Granger,” he said quietly. “You win. On Monday, I will visit the Ministry and reveal to Minister Shacklebolt that Severus Snape is alive.”

* * *

 

 

For the second weekend in a row, Hermione and Severus spent their days in tense silence. She could hardly bear it but forced herself to push through. It is almost over, she thought. He will come out of hiding, and then they could go public. No more secrets.

On Sunday afternoon, they made a plan. Hermione sent her Patronus to Kingsley, requesting a meeting for eight Monday morning, in her office. She left it vague but emphasized its importance. Kingsley’s lynx returned promptly, promising he would be there.  They would meet the minister together. Hermione had suggested including Daphne, or even her father, as well, but Severus thought it unnecessary. Uncharacteristically, she did not argue.

Hermione woke early on Monday morning. Severus was not in bed beside her, but that did not surprise her. He was an early riser, even by her standards. She went into the kitchen, expecting him to be there. He was not. Instead, she found a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast beside a pot of French press coffee under a stasis charm.

Next to the pot was a note in his spiky hand.

_Hermione,_

_I can’t. I love you. Please don’t hate me._

_~ S._


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

 

Hermione stared at the piece of parchment in her hand. I’m sleep addled, she thought. It cannot possibly say what she thought. She read it again.

_Hermione,_

_I can’t. I love you. Please don’t hate me._

_~ S._

 

It did. Unbelievable.

“Coward!” Hermione yelled, picking up the plate and throwing it across the room. It smashed against the opposite wall with a satisfying crash, the eggs, bacon, and toast mingling with the broken shards. She closed her eyes and raised her hands to massage her temples. Now what?

She had to stop him. She had to find him. They were supposed to meet Kingsley in less than two hours.

“ _Accio_ wand,” she said, stretching out her hand. Her wand came whizzing into the room, landing on her outstretched palm. She waved it around in a flurry, _Scourgify_ _f_ or the mess on the floor and wall, _Accio_ for the outfit she had laid out the evening before, and finally, _Expecto Patronum_ to summon Harry. “Tell him to come in fifteen minutes,” she told her merry little otter, and it disappeared in search of her friend.

Dressing quickly, Hermione forced herself to think rationally. She would go to Severus’ and see if he was still in his flat. Maybe she would luck out, and catch him packing. It seemed unlikely, though. Severus was a planner; he would have saved preparing breakfast and leaving the note for last. Nevertheless, she had to check. With another wave of her wand, she disapparated for Severus’ flat.

As expected, it was empty.  Every stitch of furniture, book, painting, and plant gone, as if they had never been there. Everything, except for a small box filled with items she recognized as belonging to her, including a spare toothbrush and an old Gryffindor quidditch jersey she had pinched off one of the boys long ago. At the top was another note. This one simply stated _I’m sorry._

Hermione stuffed the note into her pocket and picked up the box. She apparated back to her flat. Harry had not arrived yet. She sank onto her sofa.

Where could Severus be? He could not have apparated outside of the UK; it was too risky to apparate internationally. Could he have gone to Daphne’s parents? Professor Sinistra? He would not have had time to plan an international portkey – would he?

The alarm clock went off in Hermione’s bedroom. She had set it for 6:30. She was supposed to meet Kingsley in an hour and a half, and she had absolutely no idea what she might say to him now. She sighed and went to shut it off.

She needed to contact Kingsley. She needed to find Severus. She needed… she did not know what she needed. She desperately wanted to crawl back into bed, draw the covers over her head, and erase all memory of the last twenty minutes. 

_When you are ready to come out with your relationship, let me know. I’ll do everything in my power to soften the blow._

She needed Daphne.

Hermione moved to her wardrobe and withdrew her jewelry box. There was a false bottom to the top compartment; she had hidden Daphne’s address there. She retrieved the piece of parchment and headed into her living room just in time to see Harry tumble out of the floo. 

“Sorry I’m late, Hermione,” Harry greeted her. “Your otter had a spot of trouble waking me up.” He yawned and rubbed at his eyes, knocking his glasses askew.

“Thanks for coming,” Hermione said with surprising calm. “There’s a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Help yourself to it, please. I need to make a quick floo call.” She summoned a pillow and placed it in front of the fireplace. With a wave of her wand, the fire was roaring. She threw a pinch of floo powder into the flames. “17 Knob Hill Road, Ipswich,” she said. The fire glowed green. Gingerly, Hermione leaned forward and stuck her head through the flames.

Daphne’s living room – at least from what Hermione could see of it – was a large, airy room that got a lot of morning sun. “Daphne,” she called lightly. She did not know who Daphne lived with and hoped she was not about to wake up an entire household.

Adrien Pucey popped up from behind the sofa.

“Is that you, Granger?” he asked. He was dressed in running clothes and seemed to be in the middle of stretching. To her immense relief, he did not seem upset at her early morning floo.

“Yes, Pucey, good morning.”

“Good morning,” he replied, pulling his arms to the left side of his body and then the right before dropping them down slowly. “Looking for Daphne?”

“Yes, please. I apologize for the hour. Is she awake?”

He nodded. “Yes, we were just about to go for a run. Hold on, I’ll fetch her.” He disappeared behind the white sofa, out of Hermione’s sightline.

Daphne appeared moments later. She, too, was dressed in running gear, her long blonde hair pulled back in two long plaits.

“Is that you Hermione?” she said, hurrying over to the fireplace.

“Yes,” Hermione answered. “I’m sorry for calling so early, but it’s a bit of an emergency.”

Daphne nodded. “Move aside, I’ll be right through.”

Hermione stepped back from the fire. She heard Daphne call out to Adrian, telling him to go on without her. “I’ll send word as soon as I can,” she heard her promise. Seconds later, she was stepping out of Hermione’s floo and into the sitting room.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Daphne asked, brushing a bit of soot off her arm. She stepped down from the ledge of the fireplace and placed a concerned arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Are you okay? Is Sev-,” She had been about to ask if Severus was all right when she caught sight of Harry over Hermione’s shoulder. She clamped up immediately. “Oh,” she said softly, composing herself. “Good morning, Potter.”

Harry stepped into the sitting room. “Greengrass,” he said, nodding. He held up two mugs. “Coffee?” he asked. She shook her head. Harry placed one of the mugs in front of Hermione, before taking a seat on the edge of the sofa.

“It’s okay,” Hermione said quietly to Daphne. “He knows. Most of it, anyway, though I expect everyone will be up to date by the end of this conversation.” She sighed deeply. “Severus is missing.”

* * *

 

 

Hermione spent the next quarter of an hour filling in her friends on their gaps of information. Harry had been shocked to learn that Daphne was the one who had saved the Potion Master’s life, and was, in fact, one of his closest living relations. “I never would have expected,” he kept saying. “There is no family resemblance. I don’t think I ever saw him show you _any_ favor in his classes.”

Daphne, for her part, was pleased to learn that Hermione and Severus had finally had the talk she had encouraged, though equally dismayed at the turn of events. If she was disappointed in Hermione for spying on the Professor, she did not show it. “I didn’t know he kept in touch with Professor Sinistra after his greatly exaggerated death,” she admitted. “Though I have known they have been friends for a very long time. They were in Slytherin House together at Hogwarts.”

“Professor Sinistra was in Snape’s year?” Harry asked. “My parent’s year?”

Daphne nodded.

“She looks so young.”

Daphne smirked. “Her brother Avery owns a very successful cosmetics company that specializes in youth potions.”

Hermione glanced at the clock on the cable box. “We’re due to meet Kingsley in an hour,” she said quietly.

Harry whipped out his wand. “I’ll cancel it.”

Daphne shook her head, placing her hand across it. “Don’t,” she said. “Not yet.” She stood. “Give me twenty minutes.” She turned to Hermione. “Can I disapparate from inside your apartment?”

Hermione waved her wand, dropping her wards. She nodded.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, withdrawing her own wand. She glanced at Harry, taking in his tartan pajama pants. “Perhaps you’d like to go home and get dressed, Potter?”

Harry rolled his eyes but transfigured his sleepwear into a pair of jeans and pullover. Daphne shrugged and disappeared.

Harry sipped his coffee. It had turned tepid, and he made a face. “Where do you think she went?”

Hermione shrugged. “No idea.”

As promised, Daphne returned twenty minutes later. A man and a woman, both in their early to mid-fifties and greatly resembling Daphne, accompanied her. The woman looked vaguely familiar.

Daphne made hasty introductions. “This is my father, Julian Greengrass,” she said, gesturing toward the man. “And my aunt, Vivienne Ketteridge. Daddy, Auntie, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter.”

Julian Greengrass reached for Hermione’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger,” he said formally. He shook his head. “Naturally, I had hoped we would become acquainted under better circumstances.”

Hermione smiled weakly at him. “Me, too,” she said honestly. She had been looking forward to meeting Severus’ cousin, but certainly not like this.

“We know Vivienne, of course,” Harry said cordially.

 _Did we?_ Hermione wondered, wrinkling her brow.

The blonde witch nodded. “I head the Ministry’s Department of Public Relations,” she explained. She gestured her head toward Harry. “Mister Potter and I have spent a great deal of time together. It’s nice to remake your acquaintance, Miss Granger, even under these circumstances.”

Julian Greengrass clapped his hands together. “Daphne’s filled us in a bit,” he began. “I understand you, Miss Granger, are the young woman Cousin Eileen told us about. Severus was ready to come clean, then, was he?”

“So he said,” Hermione breathed. She coughed. “We’re meant to meet Kingsley in less than half an hour.”

“Where?”

“At my office.”

“Ah,” Julian scratched his chin. “Mr. Potter, you’re close with the Minister, correct?”

“Yes,” Harry replied.

“Do you think he could be persuaded to either meet us here at the appointed time or perhaps later in the day?”

Harry nodded, picking up his wand. “I’ll ask.” He disapparated, presumably headed to the Shacklebolt’s home.

Julian Greengrass studied Hermione appraisingly. “I hope you don’t mind, Miss Granger,” he said.

 _Mind?_ Hermione was relieved the have someone take charge. She still longed to crawl back into bed. She nodded her assent.

“Excellent.” Julian Greengrass sat down on the wing chair across from Hermione. His sister and daughter likewise took seats, Daphne sitting closest to her. She placed her hand on top of Hermione’s.

“My family has jumped into action,” she told her. “Mum has gone to Hogwarts to find out what, if anything, Professor Sinistra knows. Theia has already headed into the Ministry; she is trying to use her husband’s diplomatic status to ascertain if any portkeys were used to leave the country.”

“We’ve dispatched the rest of the family, as well,” Mr. Greengrass added. “I’ve notified Eileen that Severus has disappeared, and Phoebe, Astoria, Adrian, and Thomas are looking for him in various haunts we’ve known him to frequent over the years.”

“Thomas?”

“My husband,” Mrs. Ketteridge piped up. “He’s a retired Cursebreaker. He’s checking at Gringott’s to see if Severus headed over there, and plans to check around Knockturn Alley as well.”

Hermione wanted to cry. Severus’ family was wonderful. It both comforted and made her miserable at the same time. None of these kind people would say it, but he clearly had left because of her. She has pushed him too far, too fast.

Daphne sensed her discomfort. “Don’t worry, Hermione,” she said, placing a comforting arm around her shoulder. “He’s somewhere out there, and we’ll find him.”

* * *

 

Harry returned with Kingsley at eight on the dot. Hermione was much relieved that Mr. Greengrass continued to take the lead. He filled the minister in on what had transpired – that he and Daphne had taken Severus from the Shrieking Shack during the Battle of Hogwarts to their home in Cambridge. That his wife and eldest daughter had dutifully tended to Severus’ wounds during a very long convalescence and had managed to restore his health. That Severus had been living for the past several years abroad in Italy with his mother and had recently returned to the UK.

Then it was Hermione’s turn to speak. She told Kingsley that she had run into Severus shortly after his return. That they had become close friends. That she had called the meeting with him today because Severus said he was ready to give up living in hiding.

When she finished, Kingsley shook his head. “I’m glad to hear Severus survived. I have known him since he was a scrawny first year – I hated thinking he died in that dirty shack, all alone, and that some Death Eater had taken his body for some nefarious purpose. But why was he in hiding at all?” He directed his last comment to his head of Public Relations and her brother.

Vivienne Ketteridge answered. “He’s been serving two masters for more than twenty years, Kingsley. Our cousin just wanted to be free.”

“He made a stupid mistake in his youth,” Mr. Greengrass continued. “And spent the rest of his life repenting for it.”

“He’s been cleared of every charge against him,” Kingsley argued. “His bravery is celebrated throughout the -,”

“He knows,” Vivienne interrupted. “He hates being called a hero. He thought it would be best, easier for everyone if he just disappeared.”

Kingsley frowned. “Then what’s changed? What made him decide to come out of hiding?”

Hermione stiffened. _Me,_ she thought miserably. She was about to confess it, but Daphne stopped her.

“Me,” Daphne answered. “I’m getting married next month, Minister. It was my dearest wish to have my cousin at the wedding. I’ve gone and planned a big affair – my fiancé and I have been together for years, you see – and he felt that the only way he could attend was to come out of the woodwork, as it were.” She sighed. “It seems we pushed him to do so before he was truly ready.”

Kingsley was no fool, and Hermione knew it. He could sense there was more to the story. Fortunately, he was polite enough not to push for more information.

“I appreciate all of you telling me this today,” he said. He looked around at each of the assembled party in turn, hesitating on Hermione, before turning to address Mrs. Kitteridge. “We will keep this story quiet for now, just between us, and the rest of your family. As much as I wish that Severus _had_ come to me, you are quite right, Mr. Greengrass, Vivienne. He has paid his penance and served masters long enough. If he wishes to remain in hiding that is his right.” With that, the Minister stood, signaling the end of their meeting. He shook hands with everyone in the room, save for Hermione, who he wrapped in a fatherly hug.

“I’ll let your supervisor know you’ll be taking the week off,” he whispered into her ear. “If you need me or Nimue, do not hesitate to contact us.” Hermione nodded into his shoulder and managed a thank you. With that, Kingsley left, accompanied by Harry who promised he would return shortly.

Vivienne glanced at her wristwatch. “I should go, too. I’m due at the office.” She turned to her brother. “I’ll check in with Thomas from there. We’ll speak later Julian.” She smiled weakly at her niece and Hermione and wished them a good day before disapparating.

Julian Greengrass was next to leave. He, too, promised to keep Hermione and Daphne abreast of any discoveries. Before he went, he scribbled his address on a piece of parchment, pressing it into Hermione’s hand. “If you need us, my dear, we are there,” he told her, before departing.

Once he was gone, the tears that had been threatening to run for the past few hours started. “Your family is amazing,” Hermione told Daphne, dabbing at her wet cheeks. “I’m so sorry I’ve caused this.”

Daphne stared at her incredulously. “Darling, you haven’t caused anything!” she said, pulling Hermione into her arms. “Shh, don’t cry.” She rubbed her hand in soothing circles along Hermione’s back.

Her compassion made Hermione cry harder. “I have,” she sobbed. “I pushed him too much. I made him leave.”

“No, you haven’t. His own stubbornness made him leave,” Daphne replied. She gave Hermione a tight squeeze and withdrew. “And yes, my family may be amazing now, but I will share a secret with you. Much of it stems from guilt. My Dad and Vivienne are significantly older than Severus, nine and seven years respectively. Neither of them spent much time with him as a child. You see, Cousin Eileen was disowned when she married Severus’ father, and later, and when my family discovered the abuses that man inflicted upon the pair of them…,” Daphne trailed off, shaking her head. “They still have not forgiven themselves for their inaction, Dad, in particular. A part of him believes he could have stopped Severus from joining with the Death Eaters had he tried.”

“Oh,” Hermione breathed.

“For my part, I don’t think Dad is right. Perhaps if they had the relationship they do today, maybe, but certainly not as it was then.” She shrugged. “Besides… if he had… who knows what our world would like today, eh?”

True, Hermione thought. Severus had played such a big part in the fall of Voldemort. Who knew what might have been if he had never become what he was?

“You look tired, darling,” Daphne said, brushing back Hermione’s hair. “Why don’t you take a kip? You must be exhausted. I will check in with Mum and my sisters and see if they have learned anything. I might try a few places, as well.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly sleep,” Hermione protested, as a yawn escaped from her lips.

“Try,” Daphne insisted. She reached for the blanket lying over the back of the sofa and spread it over Hermione. “I’m going to go now, but I’ll be back later, I promise.”

Hermione closed her eyes for just a moment. She did not hear Daphne disapparate as sleep quickly overtook her.

* * *

 

 

Hermione awoke several hours later. Blinking in the bright afternoon sun, she guessed it was close or even afternoon.

“Hello there,” a quiet voice greeted her. Hermione rubbed her sleep-filled eyes and glanced up. Sitting across from her was an unfamiliar woman with auburn hair, a few years older than she. She was holding knitting needles and seemed to be working on what looked like a dress for a little girl.

“Hello,” Hermione answered uncertainly. The woman smiled kindly at her.

The woman set aside her knitting. “I’m Phoebe Wood,” the woman said. “Daphne’s sister. Daphne and your friend Harry ran out and asked me to sit here in case you woke up. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

Hermione shook her head. “Not at all,” she said. “I’m sorry to be such poor company.”

Phoebe smiled again. “I’m a Healer,” Phoebe replied. “I’m used to my charges sleeping.”

Hermione sat up. “Wood, did you say? Are you related to Oliver, as well?”

“Yes. Ollie’s my husband Gareth’s younger brother.”

“Oh.” My, thought Hermione, the Greengrass’ really did seem to be related to everyone in the Wizarding world.

“Would you like something to eat?” Phoebe asked, drawing to her feet. “I brought over sandwiches and pumpkin juice. Daphne said your fridge was rather bare.”

Hermione blushed. “I’m rubbish at keeping it stocked,” she admitted. “Severus usually does the shopping.” Her stomach growled. “Yes, a sandwich would be lovely, thank you.”

“Of course.” Phoebe headed into Hermione’s kitchen. Hermione raised her hands over her face and inhaled deeply, holding her breath for a count of ten, before exhaling just as slowly. She repeated the action four more times before Phoebe returned.

“That’s an excellent breathing exercise if you’re feeling anxious,” Phoebe said encouragingly. She set a plate and a glass of pumpkin juice down in front of Hermione. “I hope you like roast beef and swiss.”

“Looks delicious. Thank you,” Hermione said. She lifted the plate and took a big bite. It was the first thing she had put in her mouth since Severus has disappeared. She gobbled down half the sandwich before speaking again.

“Your father told me that you, Astoria and Adrian went looking for Severus this morning,” she said.

Phoebe nodded. “With no luck, unfortunately. I checked around Holyhead and Godric’s Hollow before meeting Mum in Hogsmeade. There was no sign on him.”

“Professor Sinistra?”

Phoebe shook her head. “Was surprised to learn Severus was going to come forward, and equally surprised to hear he disappeared.”

Hermione tapped her lip. _I should write this down,_ she thought. Wandlessly, she cast another _Accio_ and a quill and piece of parchment flew into her hand. Carefully, she wrote Godric’s Hollow, Holyhead, and Hogsmeade on the parchment.

“You don’t think he would have returned to the Hogwarts, do you?”

“No, I don’t think so. Besides, the castle is more heavily guarded that it has ever been. It would have been impossible for him to get in there unnoticed.”

Somehow, Hermione doubted that. If anyone could sneak into the castle undetected, she was sure it was Severus Snape. After some hesitation, she added Hogwarts, with a question mark.

“Do you know where Adrian and Astoria looked? And your uncle – Thomas, right?”

“Yes,” Phoebe nodded again. “Thomas checked Diagon Alley, Gringotts, Knockturn Alley, and the Leaky Cauldron,” she listed, counting off on her fingers. Hermione added them to her list. “Adrian looked around Ipswich and Cambridge, and Astoria checked Wiltshire.” She frowned. “We doubted he’d go to the Malfoy’s – he didn’t seem particularly eager to reacquaint himself with them - but Tor gave the Manor a thorough once over, anyway.”

Hermione added those locations, as well, as Phoebe continued.

“Aunt Vivienne checked the Ministry, and Theia has been searching for any portkey activity, but nothing has come up yet. Mum also made inquiries at St. Mungo’s, but so far, nothing.”

Hermione added them, as well.

“Dad has been checking with old acquaintances of his. He has not checked in yet, so I do not know how he has fared. Your friend Harry mentioned someone named Fletcher, an illegal artifacts dealer?”

Hermione nodded and added Mundungus to the list.

“Daphne went to question some of her old Housemates, as well. I expect she’ll be back soon.”

Hermione cocked her head. There was something in the way Phoebe had phrased her sentence that gave her pause.

“You weren’t in Slytherin?” she asked the other woman.

Phoebe shook her head, smiling again. “Just Daphne and Astoria. I was a Hufflepuff, and Theia was in Ravenclaw.”

Interesting, Hermione thought if irrelevant. Still, she found herself asking, “Did you know Tonks?”

“Yes,” Phoebe answered a bit shakily. “She was a dear friend.”

“To me, too,” Hermione replied quietly. And just like that, she decided that she adored Daphne’s eldest sister. She picked up her sandwich and finished it off.

Daphne and Harry arrived soon after.

“No luck,” Daphne said as she dropped onto the sofa beside Hermione. Spying Hermione’s list, she picked it up, read it, and then reached into her pocket for a self-inking quill. She added half a dozen names to it; Zabini, Parkinson, Nott, Flint, Warrington, and Slughorn.

“Professor Slughorn?” Hermione asked.

Daphne nodded. “Tracked him down in Cookham. He hasn’t heard anything.”

Harry flopped into the chair next to Phoebe. Daphne handed him the list, and he made an ‘x’ next to Mundungus’ name. “Fletcher hasn’t either.”

Hermione frowned at her friends. “You’re not… asking people if they’ve seen Severus Snape, are you?” This was _not_ what she wanted. She was desperate to find him, but she did not want them to reveal his secret to the very population he was trying to get escape.

Harry and Daphne shook their heads. “No,” Harry said. “We’ve been asking if anyone has seen a wizard fitting his general description. Although, Mundungus did say it sounded like we were describing Professor Snape.”

“As did Pansy,” Daphne added with a nod. “She gave me quite an unbraiding, reminding me that our former Head of House has been dead for years, and saying I was quite insensitive for stirring up memories.” She rolled her eyes and glanced at Phoebe. “She still has no idea we are related to him.”

Phoebe shrugged. “I never did like her, Daphne, you know that.” Phoebe stuffed her knitting into her handbag and stood up. “Hermione, it was a pleasure. I hope next time we meet, it will be for happier reasons.” She nodded at Harry, and then her sister. “Please excuse me. I have to pick up the little ones from their Uncle Ollie. He was pressed into babysitting duties quite against his will.”

“Send regards,” Harry said, waving his hand. Phoebe nodded and disapparated.

“Did Phoebe leave sandwiches?” Daphne asked. “I’m starving.”

“Roast beef and swiss,” Hermione replied. “They’re delicious.”

“It’s the mustard,” Daphne said confidently. She stood and looked at Harry. “Sandwich, Potter?”

“Yes, please,” Harry answered.

Hermione, Harry, and Daphne spent the next couple of hours drafting a list of people and places that Severus Snape might have gone. It was only when they finished and Harry and Daphne had left for the evening that Hermione realized there was little to no chance that they would find him at any of the locales. Everything and everyone on the list had some sort of magical relevance. Severus, Hermione knew, was quite adept at living like a Muggle.

Hermione sighed and pushed the list aside. Reaching for a clean sheet of parchment, she started again.

* * *

 

 

The next few days flew by in a flurry of activity. Every morning, Harry and Daphne would pop in around eight-thirty to share breakfast and updates on their search. Harry would leave promptly at nine; Kingsley had given him a week to search for Severus, but only a week. Harry, dedicated Auror that he was, wanted to make sure he left no stone unturned.  

Daphne stayed and spent the day with Hermione. After Harry would leave, the two would head to various Muggle locations around the UK Hermione thought Severus might be interested in visiting. They would return home in the evening. Over dinner, Hermione would indulge in a good long cry, while her new friend rubbed her back and did her best to cheer her up.

By Thursday, Hermione was all cried out. “Don’t you have a wedding to plan?” she asked Daphne over takeaway Chinese. “You are still getting married in two and a half weeks, yes?”

“Of course,” Daphne assured her. “But at this point, the plans are all set. All I have left to do is the seating chart. You’re still coming, aren’t you?”

Hermione assured her she was. Daphne had placed her at the Greengrass family table, with Phoebe on her left and an open seat for Severus on her right.

* * *

 

On Friday morning, Daphne arrived earlier than usual. “Daddy has heard from Severus,” she announced dully.

 _Thank Merlin,_ Hermione thought. “Is he okay? Where is he?”

Daphne sighed. “No idea, other than that he is certainly outside of the UK. A parcel arrived early this morning, by international post-owl.” She removed two pieces of parchment from her pocket. Wordlessly, she handed them to Hermione. The first was a letter to Julian.

_Julian,_

_My deepest apologies for disappearing. I am, regretfully, a coward after all._

_Enclosed, please find my manuscript. If you can forgive me for being the monster I am, please forward this to your publisher._

_I grant my permission for you to sign off on any changes he wishes to make, excepting the dedication. My wish is for it to remain unchanged._

_~ Severus_

The second page was a typewritten copy of the dedication itself.

_It is a fortunate man who meets someone with the ability to challenge him to succeed when he has lost his way. I dedicate this book to my dearest H.G. You inspire me, every day, in every way, even when we are parted. See you in another life, my love. – S_

Hermione dropped the papers onto the coffee table. “What does this mean?” She breathed.

Daphne toyed with the ends of her blond plait. Hermione had come to learn this was her friend’s nervous tick. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

Hermione sank down into a wing chair. “He’s not – you don’t think,”

“He’s suicidal?” Daphne shook her head vigorously. “No. I don’t think so.” She exhaled. “I’m afraid though, that…”

“That?”

Daphne looked at her friend, her big blue eyes filled with unshed tears. “Hermione… I don’t think he means to come back.”

* * *

 

For the first time since her parent’s return to the UK, Hermione canceled Friday night dinner. She was simply too devastated by Daphne’s revelation to visit her childhood home and pretend for her parents that everything was all right.

 

 


End file.
